A  Suburban  Pastoral 


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A  SUBURBAN 

PASTORAL 

,/lnd  Other  Tales 


BY 

HENRY  A.  BEERS 


NEW    YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1894 


or  THE " '~' 

•\f 


COPYRIGHT,  1894, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  &  CO. 


THE   MERSHON   COMPANY   PRESS, 
RAH\VAY,  N.  J. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I.  A  SUBURBAN  PASTORAL,  i 

II.  A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM,      .  33 

III.  A  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS,    ...  65 

IV.  DECLARATION  OF  INDEPENDENCE,     .  119 
V.  SPLIT  ZEPHYR,          ....  149 

VI.    A  GRAVEYARD  IDYL,        .        .        .     205 
VII.    EDRIC  THE  WILD  AND  THE  WITCH 

WIFE, 247 

VIII.    THE  WINE-FLOWER,         .        .        .257 


I. 

A  SUBURBAN  PASTORAL. 


A  SUBURBAN  PASTORAL. 

N  their  walks  about  Southwick  it  was 
often  agreed  between  Sproat  and 
Clitheroe  that  the  one  or  the  other  of 
them  ought  to  have  an  uncle  living 
somewhere  in  the  environs.  But  each  insisted 
that  the  duty  of  providing  him  lay  with  the  other  : 
Clitheroe  on  the  ground  that  he  had  come  to 
town  several  months  the  later  and  was  therefore 
a  comparative  stranger ;  Sproat  because,  as  he 
maintained,  Clitheroe  carried  about  him  nepotic 
suggestions. 

"  You  look  like  a  man  with  lots  of  uncles," 
said  Sproat,  "and  I  don't." 

It  must  be  acknowledged  that  the  credit  of 
inventing  this  avuncular  fable  belonged  to 
Sproat.  It  happened  of  a  windy  March  twilight, 
when  Clitheroe  looked  at  his  watch  and  said  : 

"  Quarter  of  six.  Come,  we  must  be  getting 
back  to  the  boarding  house." 

"  Now,"  answered  Sproat,  who  was  balancing 
dreamily  on  the  top  rail  of  a  fence,  "  if  you  only 
had  an  uncle  somewhere  out  this  way,  with  a 
well-stocked  sideboard  and  a  lot  of  pretty 
daughters !  Then  we  could  fetch  up  at  his 
house  and  take  dinner,  and  spend  the  evening 
around  the  fire.  And  about G.  M.,  when 


4  A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL. 

we  were  good  and  sleepy,  the  old  gentleman 
would  have  the  hired  man  hitch  up  and  drive  us 
in.  Wouldn't  that  be  better  than  tramping 
back  to  Mrs.  Barker's  cold  meat  and  stewed 
prunes?  Why  don't  you  have  an  uncle, 
Clitheroe  ?  " 

The  pleasing  fiction  thus  propounded  soon 
took  on  the  proportions  of  a  full-grown  myth. 
Fancy  added  detail  to  the  picture  of  this  imagi 
nary  uncle,  until  the  idea  of  his  life  did  sweetly 
creep  into  their  study  of  imagination  ;  and  his 
household,  his  generous  mahogany,  his  stables, 
hothouses,  and  wide  verandas  acquired  a  cer 
tain  defmiteness.  At  times  they  would  pause 
before  the  gate  of  some  uncommonly  inviting 
villa,  and  exclaim:  "What  a  place  for  an 
uncle !" 

In  the  absence  of  the  real  article  they  went 
as  far  as  to  discuss  the  feasibility  of  creating  an 
artificial  one.  Adopting  a  hint  from  the  cata 
logue  of  the  Neophogen  University,  they  won 
dered  whether  it  might  not  be  possible  to  hire 
some  "  learned  man  who  had  failed  in  business," 
rent  a  convenient  country  house,  and  set  him  up 
as  an  uncle.  His  sole  duty  would  be  to  dis 
pense  an  open  hospitality  to  his  nephews, 
from  resources  secretly  provided  by  themselves. 
But  this  scheme  was  too  expensive  to  be  seri 
ously  thought  of.  It  remained  a  beautiful 
dream. 

The  two  friends  had  few  acquaintances  in 
Southwick.  They  had  come  to  the  little  city 
not  long  before — Sproat  to  take  the  position  of 


A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL.  5 

chemist  in  the  dye  works,  Clitheroe  as  designer 
of  patterns  to  a  carpet-weaving  establishment. 
Accident  had  brought  them  to  the  same  board 
ing  house,  and  intimacy  resulted  from  their 
common  fondness  for  walking — an  old-fashioned 
exercise  which  they  preferred  to  swinging  clubs 
and  putting  up  dumb-bells  in  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
gymnasium,  or  even  to  knocking  a  ball  over  a 
net  in  the  tennis  court  which  Mrs.  Barker's 
boarders  had  laid  out  in  the  back  yard.  Except 
on  Sundays,  however,  business  kept  them  too 
close  to  permit  of  their  straying  very  far  afield. 
Having  only  an  hour  or  two  free  at  the  end  of 
the  afternoon,  they  had  to  content  themselves 
usually  with  exploring  the  streets  and  outskirts 
of  the  city. 

There  is  one  glory  of  the  country  and  another 
glory  of  the  town,  but  there  is  a  limbo  or  ragged 
edge  between  which  is  without  glory  of  any 
kind.  It  is  not  yet  town — it  is  no  longer  coun 
try.  Hither  are  banished  slaughter  pens, 
chemical  and  oil  works,  glue  factories,  soap 
boilers,  and  other  malodorous  nuisances.  Here 
are  railroad  shops  and  roundhouses,  sand  lots, 
German  beer  gardens,  and  tenement  blocks. 
Land,  which  was  lately  sold  by  the  acre,  is  now 
offered  by  the  foot  front ;  and  no  piece  of  real 
estate  is  quite  sure  whether  it  is  still  part  of  an 
old  field  or  has  become  a  building  lot.  Rural 
lanes  and  turnpikes  have  undergone  metamor 
phosis  into  "  boulevards,"  where  regulation 
curbstones  prophesy  future  sidewalks,  and 
thinly  scattered  lamp-posts  foretell  a  coming 


6  A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL. 

population.  Far  out  on  sandy  plains  the  ear 
is  startled  by  the  tinkle  of  horse-car  bells; 
and  the  eye  descries  this  moving  outpost  of 
civilization  making  its  way  along  a  track  bor 
dered  with  ragweed  and  daisies,  conveying  a 
dejected  driver  and  a  solitary  fare  to  some 
remote  destination  a  mile  or  two  beyond  city 
limits.  Here  is  a  smart  new  corner  grocery  in 
red  brick,  center  of  a  growing  trade,  and  deriv 
ing  its  patronage  from  rows  of  little  new  wooden 
houses,  to  whose  front  yards  and  turf  borders 
the  lawn  mower  and  the  rubber  hose  have  already 
given  a  municipal  smugness.  The  frequent 
baby  carriage  and  the  swarms  of  children  hang~ 
ing  upon  the  music  of  that  suburban  minstrel, 
the  organ  grinder,  justify  the  enterprise  of  the 
grocer  and  the  faith  of  the  real  estate  specu 
lator.  On  the  opposite  corner  is  a  decayed 
farmhouse,  with  its  cow  sheds  and  outbuild 
ings.  Perhaps  a  pile  of  milk  cans  decorates  the 
farmyard,  and  a  half  dozen  cows  still  graze  the 
neighboring  pasture.  But  more  likely  the  cows 
have  disappeared,  and  pasture  and  orchard — 
where  a  few  surviving  apple  trees  stretch  their 
naked  arms  to  heaven — have  passed  into  un- 
fenced  lots  intersected  by  diagonal  paths,  short 
cuts  of  tin-pailed  mechanics;  bediamonded  in 
the  center  by  local  ball  nines,  who  play  the 
national  game  there  on  Saturdays  (and  eke,  it  is 
to  be  feared,  on  Sundays) ;  and  browsed  by  the 
goat — cow  of  the  suburb. 

As  they  grew  familiar  with  this  outcast  region, 
our  peripatetic  philosophers  found  a  picturesque- 


A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL.  J 

ness  in  its  peculiar  scenery.  At  least  Clitheroe 
did,  and  secretly  perhaps  so  did  Sproat,  al 
though  he  professed  insensibility  and  flouted 
the  rhapsodies  of  his  companion,  whom  he  ac 
cused  of  Schwdrmerei  and  of  getting  points  of 
view  from  Mr.  Howells'  "  Suburban  Sketches." 

"  Come,  now,  Clitheroe,"  he  would  say, 
"  there's  an  old  hen-house  with  the  sunset 
shining  through  the  laths ;  and  there's  an 
abandoned  omnibus,  and  two  or  three  red 
cedars,  and  some  ducks  in  a  puddle  in  the  fore 
ground,  and  two  niggers  with  a  scoop-net  going 
across  the  middle  distance.  Can't  you  get  up 
some  fluff  about  that  ?  Effet  de  soleil  or  some 
thing  ?  Come,  give  us  a  frenzy  ! " 

Clitheroe  said  that  he  liked  the  new  corner 
grocery  and  the  rows  of  fresh-painted  Queen 
Anne  cottages,  and  even  the  wandering  horse 
car  and  empty  boulevards.  They  were  raw, 
but  they  were  signs  of  growth— emblems  of  the 
young,  hopeful,  expansive  American  spirit.  At 
the  same  time  he  enjoyed  the  pathos  which  at 
tended  the  retreat  of  rural  aristocracy  before  the 
advance  of  urban  democracy.  There  were,  in 
the  circuit  of  their  rambles,  two  or  three  man 
sions  of  ancient  gentility  stranded  high  and 
dry  among  squalid  surroundings.  One  in  par 
ticular,  which  had  once  been  a  gentleman's 
country  seat  and  was  now  a  tenement  house 
occupied  by  several  Irish  families,  stood  on  a 
hill  which  the  new  boulevard  had  cut  through, 
leaving  a  bank  of  red  clay.  Twenty  feet  over 
head  the  gravel  walk  ended  in  air,  with  its 


3  A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL. 

flanking  box  borders,  whose  bitter  aroma  re 
called  the  past.  The  turf  had  slipped  away 
from  the  terraces ;  the  horse-chestnuts  and 
weeping  willows  were  dead  or  dying;  the  snow- 
berry  and  althaea  shrubs  lived  a  scraggly  life  ; 
and  behind  the  big  wooden  columns  of  the 
portico,  many-colored  garments  fluttered  on  a 
clothes  line.  Yet  with  something  of  the  air  of 
a  Greek  temple  on  its  acropolis,  or  of  a  feudal 
castle  from  its  steep,  the  old  house  looked  down 
upon  the  intruding  squalor :  upon  the  line  of 
dump  carts  tilted  up  against  the  bank,  where 
Italian  laborers  were  at  work  upon  the  new 
reservoir ;  upon  the  cinder  heaps  and  rank 
Jamestown-weeds  and  tomato-cans  of  the 
neighboring  lots ;  upon  the  gang  of  hoodlums 
lazily  working  the  growler  on  the  doorstep  of  a 
contiguous  shanty. 

All  these  appreciations  Sproat  greeted  with 
scorn.  Yet  twice  or  thrice  a  week,  between 
four  and  five  in  the  afternoon,  he  would  present 
himself  at  the  door  of  his  friend's  room,  walk 
ing-stick  in  hand,  and  challenge  him  to  a  consti 
tutional. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  rdder  autour  the  pur 
lieus  a  bit  ?  There's  that  obsolete  toll-gate  on 
the  Wellsville  road  we  were  going  to  visit 
again — the  one  you  romanced  about  the  other 
day — where  we  got  the  home-made  root  beer. 
Or  the  blacksmith's  shop,  where  you  thought 
you  saw  Vulcan  kindling  up  the  Cyclopean 
forges.  Cut  work  for  an  hour  or  so ;  you'll  do 
it  all  the  better  this  evening." 


A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL.  9 

And  Clitheroe  would  look  up  from  his  draw 
ings  and  laugh,  and  presently  reach  for  his  hat 
and  stick,  and  the  two  would  set  off  in  search 
of  fresh  discoveries. 

Quite  as  often  as  not  it  happened  that 
Clitheroe,  on  his  way  home  after  business 
hours,  called  for  Sproat  at  the  laboratory. 

"  Come,"  he  would  say, "  you  old  dyer's  hand. 
Your  nature  is  subdued  to  what  it  works  in. 
Come  out  into  the  light  of  things." 

On  one  such  occasion,  when  the  April  day 
was  declining  toward  a  pale  sunset,  and  the  in 
cessant  ring  of  the  hylas  from  ponds  and  wet 
meadows  brought  that  touch  of  melancholy 
which  sounds  a  minor  note  in  the  promise  of 
our  belated  springs,  as  they  turned  into  the 
street  from  the  gate  of  the  Excelsior  Dye 
Works,  Sproat  said  : 

"Are  you  particular  about  getting  back  at 
six  ?  I  feel  like  covering  a  little  more  ground 
to-night.  Suppose  we  cut  the  boardin'-'us  and 
get  supper  somewhere  about  eight  o'clock." 

"  All  right,"  responded  Clitheroe.  "  I'm  with 
you.  Which  way  is  it  ?  " 

"  How's  the  Wellsville  pike?  " 

''A  chestnut.  You  haven't  the  least  origi 
nality." 

"  No,  but  I  have  a  thirst  on  me  that  I 
wouldn't  take  five  dollars  for,  and  nothing  but 
Hiram's  sassafras  vintage  can  quench  it." 

"  Very  well ;  the  Wellsville  pike  be  it,  then. 
I'm  weak  to-night.  I've  got  the  spring  languor 
and  can't  wrangle  with  a  disputatious  cuss." 


10          A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL. 

Half  an  hour  later  they  were  at  the  little  way 
side  house  by  the  extinct  toll  gate  :  a  spot 
which  always  appealed  to  Sproat  by  its  beer 
and  seed  cakes,  and  to  Clitheroe  by  its  quaint- 
ness.  The  frame  of  the  gate  still  bestrode  the 
highway,  a  relic  and  survival  which  Clitheroe 
compared  with  Temple  Bar.  Even  the  idle 
gate  had  not  been  taken  down,  but  was  swung 
open  and  lashed  to  the  roadside  post,  remind 
ing  the  traveler  of  an  old  hulk  tied  up  to  rot  by 
Lethe's  wharf.  A  board  with  faded  letters  still 
proclaimed  the  tariff  for  single  and  double 
teams  and  parties  on  horseback. 

"  What  a  bully  old  anachronism  it  is  ! "  was 
Clitheroe's  comment.  "  I  don't  know  why  a 
toll  gate  always  makes  me  think  of  an  elope 
ment." 

"  No  more  do  I,"  answered  Sproat,  "  nor 
why  anything  makes  you  think  of  anything. 
Your  law  of  association  of  ideas  is  morbidly 
eccentric." 

The  cake  and  beer  were  administered  unto 
them  by  a  lank  but  genial  Yankee,  with  high 
cheek  bones  and  a  goaty  wisp  of  beard  under 
his  chin,  who  was  known  to  our  perambulators 
as  Gosh-Darn-It,  but  whose  baptismal  name 
and  orphaned  state  were  blazoned  on  a  sign 
board  over  the  door : 


Hiram,  the  widow's  son,  I  hope, 
Can  furnish  customers  with  soap 
Such  as  can  make  a  washing  day 
Pass  off  as  pleasant  e'en  as  May 


A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL.  II 

Leaving  the  toll-gate,  they  passed  a  region 
of  brick-kilns,  and  then  a  pond  with  a  row  of 
ice-houses,  whose  high-pitched  roofs  Clitheroe 
noted  as  an  instance  of  early  Gothic  ;  and  whose 
various  tints  of  wood-color,  grading  from  a 
weather-beaten  gray  to  a  fresh  pine  yellow, 
Sproat  remarked  as  resembling  the  annual  rings 
in  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  and  furnishing  a  grati 
fying  evidence  of  the  yearly  growth  of  the  ice 
trade.  Beyond  the  ice-houses  they  crossed  a 
railroad  cut,  which  had  hitherto  formed  the 
limit  of  their  walks  in  this  direction,  and  struck 
into  an  unfamiliar  country. 

It  was  growing  dusk  when  they  stopped  in 
front  of  what  seemed  an  old-fashioned  country 
residence,  somewhat  run  down  at  the  heels. 
The  house  had  a  Southern  look;  at  least  so 
thought  Clitheroe,  who  had  never  been  farther 
south  than  Philadelphia.  At  any  rate  it  was 
low  and  rambling,  only  a  story  and  a  half  high, 
with  many  dormer  windows,  and  a  veranda 
around  three  sides.  Clitheroe  also  said  that  it 
recalled  to  him — he  did  not  quite  know  why — 
some  vague  old  lines  which  he  went  on  to  re 
cite : 

' '  I  walked  upon  the  winding  shore, 
I  gazed  upon  the  ocean's  foam, 
I  listened  to  the  wild  wind's  roar, 
And  then — oh,  then  ! — I  thought  of  home." 

"  Vague  old  lines  !  "  snorted  Sproat.  "  You 
made  them  up  yourself,  you  dog,  and  now  you 
are  getting  them  off  on  me  without  the  shadow 


12          A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL. 

of  an  excuse.  You  haven't  even  led  the  con 
versation  up  to  them.  What  has  this  house 
got  to  do  with  ocean  foam  ?  " 

"  The  gateposts,"  pursued  Clitheroe,  "  are  a 
trifle  too  pretentious,  but  I  observe  with  appro 
bation  the  circumstance  that  one  of  the  stone 
urns  is  ruinous." 

A  light  or  two  began  to  glimmer  in  the 
windows. 

"  How  would  that  do  for  an  uncle  ?  "  asked 
Sproat, 

"  Pretty  well,"  answered  Clitheroe  doubtfully, 
"  It  isn't  quite  my  ideal.  I  had  thought  of  the 
uncle's  establishment  as  having  a  rather  more 
modern  and  prosperous  air — rather  more  upper 
works,  for  one  thing — cool,  airy  chambers  for 
the  casual  nephew.  This,  now,  is  'picture- 
squee  ' — as  the  Vulgarian  Atrocity  at  Mrs, 
Barker's  would  say — but  is  it  practical  ?  " 

"But  a  quiet,  inexpensive  uncle "  sug 
gested  Sproat. 

"  A  little  uncle  for  a  cent — "  agreed  Clitheroe. 

"  Or  haply  an  aunt " 

"  The  very  place  for  an  aunt ! " 

"Come  on,"  exclaimed  Sproat,  seizing  the 
other  by  the  arm  and  starting  toward  the  house  ; 
"  something  tells  me  that  there  is  an  uncle  of 
some  kind  in  there,  and  I  am  going  to  see." 

"I'm  in  it,"  responded  his  friend,  and  arm  in 
arm  they  entered  the  gateway  and  advanced  up 
the  weedy  gravel  walk.  But  presently  it  became 
evident  to  Clitheroe  that  Sproat  was  going 
through  with  the  adventure  in  earnest,  He 


A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL.  13 

marched  grimly  and  silently  to  the  door  with 
out  relaxing  his  hold  upon  his  companion,  who 
began  to  have  misgivings.  For  a  moment  the 
thought  even  occurred  to  him  that  Sproat  might 
have  put  into  practice  their  Utopian  project  of 
hiring  an  uncle,  thus  preparing  for  Clitheroe 
a  pleasant  little  surprise.  But  this  notion  he 
rejected  as  wild.  Meanwhile  Sproat,  who  had 
been  fumbling  for  the  bell,  had  found  it  and 
given  it  a  pull,  and  a  startling  tintinnabulation 
rang  through  the  hall. 

"  What  the  devil !  "—Clitheroe  at  last  broke 
silence,  struggling  to  pull  away  his  arm. 

"  Keep  shady — keep  shady  !  "  remonstrated 
Sproat,  holding  on  firmly ;  and  suddenly  the 
door  was  thrown  open,  a  flood  of  light  streamed 
out,  and  Sproat  was  saying  to  the  housemaid  : 

"  Are  Mrs.  Venable  and  the  young  ladies 
in  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  prophetic  soul !  Your  uncle !  "  mur 
mured  Clitheroe  as  they  entered. 

"  No — my  aunt.  Keep  shady,  as  aforesaid, 
and  don't  get  into  a  cast-iron  perspiration." 

The  room  into  which  they  were  ushered  was 
lighted  only  by  the  flicker  of  a  wood  fire.  At 
one  side  of  this  sat  a  tall,  thin,  elderly  lady, 
screening  her  eyes  from  the  flame  with  a  palm- 
leaf  fan  ;  at  the  other  a  somewhat  dumpy 
young  woman,  who  rose  as  they  entered. 

"  Aunt  Henrietta,"  began  Sproat,  "  I  have 
brought  my  friend,  Mr.  Clitheroe.  Clitheroe, 
my  aunt,  Mrs.  Venable,  and  my  cousin,  Miss 
Catherine  Venable." 


14          A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Clitheroe," 
said  the  elder  lady  from  her  corner.  "  Excuse 
my  not  rising,  please  ;  I  am  something  of  an 
invalid." 

"  Shall  I  have  the  lamp  lighted  ?  "  asked  the 
younger.  "  Can  you  make  out  to  see  any 
thing?  Don't  stumble  over  my  sewing-chair, 
Frank." 

"  Oh,  don't  light  the  lamp  ! "  remonstrated 
Clitheroe.  "  The  firelight  is  so  much  pleas- 
anter." 

"  We  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Venable.  "  How 
chilly  these  spring  evenings  are.  Did  you  walk 
all  the  way  out  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Sproat.  "  We  came  on  a 
pair  of  high-stepping,  red-roan  steeds.  Hist ! 
Dost  not  hear  them  even  now  snorting  at  the 
portal  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  are  used  to  his  nonsense,  Mr. 
Clitheroe  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,  Mrs.  Venable." 

"You  have  a  widow's  fire,  aunt,"  pursued  her 
nephew.  "  Permit  me  to  brisk  it  up  a  bit  with 
the  bellows.  Women  never  know  how  to  han 
dle  a  fire." 

"  If  it  were  not  for  this  fire  we  should  have 
perished,"  rejoined  his  cousin.  "  We  have  been 
in  this  house  only  a  week,  Mr.  Clitheroe,  and 
we  find  everything  out  of  repair,  and  especially 
the  furnace.  Frank,  that  stove-man  that  you 
sent  out  is  a  perfidious  wretch.  He  said  the 
castings,  or  something,  were  cracked,  and  we 
should  have  to  have  new  ones ;  and  he  took 


A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL.  15 

them  away  day  before  yesterday  and  hasn't 
appeared  since." 

"  He  will  return,  I  know  him  well — he  would 
not  leave  me  here  to  die  ! "  chanted  Sproat 
operatically.  "  But  where's  Beatrice?" 

"  You  seem  to  be  in  good  spirits  to-night,"  said 
a  voice  at  the  door.  "  Do  you  do  that  often  ?  " 

"  Come  in,  little  Treechy,  come  right  in," 
shouted  Sproat.  "  Mr.  Clitheroe,  Miss  Beatrice 
Venable.  Be  seated,  Beatrice." 

The  newcomer  was  far  from  meriting,  in  a 
literal  sense,  the  endearing  diminutive  which 
her  cousin  had  applied  to  her.  She  was  a 
rather  ample  young  woman,  who  moved  with  a 
certain  languid  grace,  and  spoke  and  laughed 
in  a  voice  whose  deep  contralto  tones  and  de 
liberate  utterance  suggested  a  rich  physical  en 
dowment.  Thus  much  was  evident  concerning 
her,  by  the  imperfect  illumination  in  the  room. 
As  she  sat  and  talked,  the  firelight  shining  on 
her  eyes  and  touching  here  and  there  a  skein  of 
hair,  the  salience  of  her  cheek,  or  the  rondure  of 
her  chin,  Clitheroe  guessed,  rather  than  saw, 
that  by  daylight  she  would  be  a  brown-skinned 
girl,  with  tawny  hair  and  eyes  of  some  dark 
color.  She  spoke  with  a  slight  drawl,  putting 
a  heavy  stress  on  certain  words,  and  with  a 
sort  of  accent  which  was  not  definitely  foreign, 
but  carried  with  it  tropical,  or  at  least  exotic, 
associations.  Clitheroe  once  asked  Sproat  if 
his  cousin  Beatrice  had  not  lived  at  some  time 
in  the  East  or  West  Indies. 

"  Beatrice  ?    Never,"   he   assured   him  ;    but 


16          A    SUBURBAN  PAS7VXAL. 

added,  with  a  laugh,  "  I  don't  wonder  at  your 
question,  though.  She  zs  sort  of  sandalwoody 
and  tuberosy." 

"  Frank  has  been  promising  to  bring  you," 
she  said.  "  You  know — or  do  you  know  ? — 
that  we  are  perfect  strangers  in  Southwick — if 
you  call  this  Southwick.  How  many  miles  is 
it  ?  Anyway,  it  was  very  good  of  you  to  come 
so  far  to  see  us." 

"  Oh,  it  was  very  noble  of  me,"  admitted 
Clitheroe. 

"  You  are  a  great  walker,  aren't  you  ?  "  in 
quired  the  other  sister.  "  Frank  has  told  us 
about  your  walks  together — and  about  the 
uncle.  We  think  it's  so  funny  about  the  uncle." 

"  What  uncle  is  that  ?  "  inquired  Sproat  inno 
cently. 

"  Mrs.  Venable,"  cried  Clitheroe,  "the  duplic 
ity  of  that  man  is  beyond  belief.  He  never  let 
on  to  me  that  he  had  any  bloodykin  here  or 
anywhere  else.  He  lured  me  out  here  in  the 
most  unsuspecting  frame  of  mind.  He  gave 
our  walk  this  direction  as  if  it  was  merely  acci 
dental.  And  when  he  got  me  as  far  as  the 
gate  he  asked  me  if  I  didn't  think  this  would 
be  a  nice  house  for  the  uncle ;  and  then  he 
grabbed  me  and  pulled  me  in  before  I  could 
offer  any  resistance." 

All  the  ladies  laughed,  and  Beatrice  said  in  a 
tragic  tone : 

"  Mr.  Clitheroe,  we  can  never,  never  be  an 
uncle  to  you,  but  we  will  do  our  best  to  be 
aunties." 


A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL.  17 

At  the  end  of  the  evening,  when  they  took 
leave,  Mrs.  Venable  murmured  her  regrets  that 
they  had  so  long  a  walk  before  them  at  night. 

"  It's  only  two  miles  to  the  horse  cars,"  said 
her  nephew. 

"It  seems  very  long,"  she  replied  plaintively. 

"  That's  because  it's  so  long  since  you  walked 
any,  Aunt  Henrietta,  that  you've  lost  all  notion 
of  distances." 

"  I  would  offer  to  put  you  both  up,"  said 
Catherine  briskly,  "  but  we  are  all  in  chaos  yet 
and  most  of  our  furniture  isn't  even  unpacked. 
The  next  time  you  bring  Mr.  Clitheroe,  Frank, 
you  must  arrange  to  breakfast  with  us.  I  want 
you  to  understand,  Mr.  Clitheroe,  that  I  am  the 
business  end  of  this  manage  " — and  she  jingled 
a  bunch  of  keys  in  her  pocket.  "Hear  that? 
Mamma  will  be  your  literary  aunty  and  Treech 
your  artistic  aunty,  and  I  will  be  your  practical 
aunty." 

When  Clitheroe  had  got  Sproat  out  under  the 
stars  he  faced  him  and  gazed  long  and  steadily 
into  his  eyes.  Then  they  both  broke  into  a  vio 
lent  fit  of  laughter. 

"  If  you  ever  put  up  such  a  job  on  me 
again "  he  began. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  Don't  you  like  my 
cousins  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  are  bully  cousins,  but " 

"  I  call  them  rather  nice  girls — for  girls." 

"  Sproat,  they  are  daisies." 

"  Oh,  come,  now,  they  are  well  enough.  But 
after  all  they're  not  an  uncle." 


1 8          A    SUBURBAN  PASTO&At. 

After  this  the  young  men's  walks  commonly 
tended  toward  the  Wellsville  pike  and  the  Yen- 
able  house.  Clitheroe  even  became  a  some 
what  importunate  walker,  and  Sproat  grew,  or 
pretended  to  grow,  a  trifle  bored  by  it.  One 
afternoon  Clitheroe  presented  himself  at  the 
usual  hour  at  his  friend's  laboratory. 

"Come  on,  you  woaded  savage;  put  down 
that  hydrochloric  sulphate,  or  whatever  it  is; 
take  off  your  apron,  wash  your  handy-pandies, 
and  let's  go  and  interview  Gosh-Darn-It." 

"  I  know  what  that  means,"  said  Sproat  as 
he  slowly  placed  a  vial  of  some  orange-colored 
liquid  on  the  shelves  before  him  and  turned 
around.  "  Clith,  this  thing  has  got  to  stop. 
You  are  getting  to  be  a  regular  tramp.  And 
you  are  drinking  yourself  into  the  jim-jams  on 
Hiram's  root  beer." 

"  Well,  are  you  coming  ?  " 

"  No  ;  go  to  the  aunt,  thou  sluggard.  I  can't 
leave  here  for  two  hours  yet.  I've  got  some 
reactions  to  watch." 

"Who  said  anything  about  the  aunt?  I 
said  Hiram." 

"  Clitheroe  "—looking  at  him  steadily— 
"  which  one  is  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  be  hanged  !  "  said  Clitheroe,  turn 
ing  red ;  and  he  went  out  and  slammed  the 
door  behind  him. 

Nevertheless,  a  few  evenings  after  this,  the 
two  found  themselves  once  more  in  Mrs.  Ven- 
able's  parlor.  It  was  June  now  and  Clitheroe 
had  brought  a  handful  of  the  Arethusa  bulbosa, 


A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL.  19 

which  Catherine  was  arranging  in  a  vase  with 
the  spotty  leaves  of  the  adder's  tongue  and  a 
few  sprays  of  mitchella. 

"  What  lovely  flowers  !  "  exclaimed  Beatrice, 
coming  into  the  room.  "  They  are  orchids, 
aren't  they  ?  Where  did  you  get  them  ?  " 

"  This  '  charming  little  plant  in  wet  bogs, 
north  '  —  vide  Gray — grew  in  Shuttle  Pond 
Meadow,  and  a  mighty  wet  bog  it  is.  But 
it's  a  splendid  wild  place  to  be  right  on  the 
edge  of  a  city,  and  it's  full  of  fine  things.  I've 
no  doubt  that  the  otter  and  the  blue  heron 
haunt  its  recesses,  though  I've  never  happened 
to  find  them  there." 

"  Oh,  how  fascinating !  Why  can't  I  go 
there?  Is  it  far  ?" 

"  It's  a  horrid  malarial  hole,"  put  in  Sproat, 
"a  collection  of  ditches  surrounded  by  pig-pens 
and  slaughter-houses.  The  corporation  ought 
to  drain  it.  Clitheroe  goes  wading  around  in 
it  and  trying  to  persuade  himself  that  it  is  like 
the  Maremma,  or  the  Pontine  marshes,  or  some 
thing.  He  wants  me  to  go  walking  there — but 
there  are  some  things  I  won't  do ;  I  hate 
stenches." 

"  Frank  hasn't  the  least  imagination,"  said 
his  cousin.  "  I  wish  you'd  invite  me  to  go 
walking  there,  Mr.  Clitheroe.  What  did  you 
call  it  ?  Shuttle  Meadow  ?  Such  an  original 
name  ! " 

"  Miss  Venable,  I  shall  be  proud  and  happy 
to  introduce  you  to  the  wonders  of  the  swamp 
any  day  you  say.  You  will  appreciate  it.  It 


20          A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL. 

has  character.  Its  name  is  but  an  index  to 
its  nature." 

"  Oh,  come  off  !  "  objected  Sproat.  "  What 
has  Shuttle  got  to  do  with  it  ?  Now  if  .it  was 
called  Pest-house  Sink  or  Frog  Hole,  or  some 
thing  of  the  kind " 

"  And  may  I  take  my  sketching  things  ? 
I  know  there  must  be  some  delightful  bits 
there." 

"  Miss  Venable,  there  are  a  dozen  little  land 
scapes  in  the  meadow,  every  one  of  them  as 
individual  as  if  it  was  a  hundred  miles  away 
from  the  rest.  Let  me  describe  you  a  fore 
ground  effect  that  I  noticed  just  this  morn 
ing " 

"  You  may  describe  it  to  her,  but  hanged  if 
you  shall  to  me,"  protested  Sproat.  "  I've  seen 
the  place  myself,  and  I  won't  listen  to  any  stuff 
about  it.  If  you  go  with  him,  Treech,  you'd 
better  brace  up  in  advance  on  twelve  grains  of 
quinine  and  have  yourself  thoroughly  fumigated 
when  you  come  home." 

It  was  agreed,  nevertheless,  that  Clitheroe 
should  call  for  Miss  Venable  on  the  following 
afternoon  and  escort  her  to  Shuttle  Pond 
Meadow.  Sproat  had  arranged  to  spend  the 
night  at  his  aunt's  and  walk  into  town  in  the 
morning ;  and  after  Clitheroe  had  taken  leave, 
he  stood  at  the  window,  looking  out  at  the  dark 
and  whistling  softly.  Catherine  had  left  the 
room  and  Beatrice  had  taken  up  a  piece  of 
sewing  and  was  stitching  slowly  under  the 
lamp. 


A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL.          21 

"  A  nice  little  fellow,  Clith,"  he  ventured  at 
length. 

She  made  no  reply. 

"  But  he  will phantasiren"  he  pursued. 

"  Isn't  he  a  little — ladylike  ?  "  She  spoke 
with  a  lingering  inflection,  bending  low  over 
her  sewing. 

"  I  shouldn't  call  him  effeminate." 

"  Would  you  call  him  feminine  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  may  have  a  dash  of  the  ewig 
weibliche,  perhaps.  But  what  would  you  call 
him,  now  ?  "  facing  about  from  the  window. 

"  He  is  excitable,  but  he  is  awfully  sweet." 

"  What  an  adjective  !  " 

"  You  wouldn't  like  to  be  called  that,  would 
you?  " 

"Not  by  a  woman  that  I  cared  for." 

"  Well,  you  are  wrong.  It's  what  a  woman 
likes  best  in  a  man." 

"  Is  sweetness  a  masculine  attribute  ?  I 
thought  women  liked  a  man  to  be  masculine." 

"  Yes,  under  some  circumstances.  Oh,  you 
can't  understand — you  are  not  a  woman." 

"  Well,  anyway,  Clith  is  a  nice  little  fellow." 

Shuttle  Pond  Meadow  proved  to  be  very 
much  as  Sproat  had  described  it ;  but  also,  to 
the  eye  of  sentiment,  something  as  Clitheroe 
had  described  it.  It  was  a  bit  of  unclaimed 
swamp,  of  perhaps  two  hundred  acres,  on  the 
limits  of  the  town.  There  were  soap-factories 
and  slaughter-houses  on  one  side  of  it,  which 
used  its  sluggish  waters  for  their  drainage,  and 
where  the  mysterious  process  known  as  "  render- 


22          A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL 

ing  "  annoyed  the  air.  One  or  two  mean  little 
streets  abutted  upon  another  side  of  it,  their 
shabby  houses,  mainly  negro  cabins,  turning 
toward  it  their  back  yards,  a  row  of  sloping 
gravel  heaps  with  tumble-down  henneries  and 
rank  thickets  of  burdock  and  stramonium.  A 
sandy  road  gave  access  to  the  penetralia  of  the 
swamp,  where,  on  a  sort  of  island  fringed  with 
pollard  willows,  a  German  family  cultivated  a 
miniature  truck-farm  and  defied  malaria  in  an 
old  house  littered  about  with  pigsties  and 
wagon-sheds  and  the  remains  of  an  ancient 
apple  orchard.  The  original  Shuttle  Pond  had 
mostly  percolated  away,  but  the  place  was  full 
of  stagnant  ditches  and  pools  of  black  bog 
water  greened  over  with  frog-spittle  and  all 
manner  of  iridescent  scum.  Clitheroe  apolo 
gized  for  these  unlovely  aspects,  but  Miss  Ven- 
able  was  in  a  gracious  mood  and  made  light  of 
them.  She  was  bent  upon  the  discovery  of  the 
picturesque,  and  it  was  not  long  before  she 
found  it. 

Somewhere  beyond  the  ancient  orchard  they 
came  upon  a  plank,  bridging  a  kind  of  fosse  or 
moat  through  which  a  clear  stream  ran  over 
gravel.  Crossing  this,  they  found  themselves 
in  a  little  green  meadow,  flat  and  square  as  a 
table  top.  The  willows,  alders,  button-bushes, 
and  other  fluviatile  shrubs  which  edged  it,  gave 
the  tiny  landscape  an  isolation  of  its  own.  The 
spongy  ground  was  covered  with  the  soft  tufts 
of  the  sphagnum,  or  peat  moss,  and  the  water 
that  soaked  their  shoes  was  warm  as  if  heated 


A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL.          23 

for  the  bath.  Clitheroe  explained  that  this  was 
the  spot  where  he  had  found  the  arethusa,  and 
that  later  in  the  summer  the  white-fringed 
orchis  would  abound  among  the  moss.  He 
sought  out  a  dry,  firm  area  in  the  middle  of  the 
meadow  and  here  his  companion,  with  many 
exclamations  of  delight,  selected  a  point  of 
view  and  got  ready  her  sketching  materials. 
The  only  building  in  sight  was  the  old  farm 
house,  a  gable  of  which  peeped  through  the 
orchard  boughs.  Clitheroe  helped  her  pitch 
her  easel  and  adjust  the  portable  camp  stool. 
Then  he  threw  himself  down  on  the  grass  and 
watched  her  spread  out  her  paper  and  select  her 
pencils. 

"  Is  it  permitted  to  talk  to  the  man  at  the 
wheel  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  you  may  talk  all  you  want,  but  please 
don't  look  over  my  shoulder.  It  makes  me 
nervous." 

"  I  can't  imagine  you  being  nervous.  Still, 
I'll  control  my  curiosity  till  your  picture  is 
finished." 

"  It  may  not  be  finished  to-day ;  there  is  so 
much  detail." 

"  Good ;  then  we'll  have  to  come  again." 

"  That  would  be  lovely,  but  it  may  not  be 
necessary.  I  usually  fill  in  detail  from  memory, 
or  invent  it." 

"  So  that  it  won't  do  me  any  good  to  delay  you 
by  frivolous  talk,  in  hopes  of  another  sitting?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least ;  besides,  it  doesn't  delay 
me  to  talk  to  me." 


24          A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL. 

She  drew  at  first  rather  slowly,  pausing 
often,  and  keeping  up  her  share  of  the  conver 
sation.  But  presently  she  grew  absorbed, 
working  with  swift  touches,  and  her  answers 
became  laconic  and  finally  irrelevant.  So  he 
ceased  talking  and  lay  regarding  her.  She 
took  various  graceful  poses,  sometimes  poising 
the  pencil  before  her  face,  sometimes  leaning 
backward  or  sideways  to  examine  her  sketch 
from  a  different  vantage  ground.  Subtle  and 
altogether  charming  changes  of  expression 
flitted  across  her  face.  Now  her  eyes  were 
raised  and  fixed  on  the  scene  that  she  was 
transferring  to  her  paper,  now  they  drooped  to 
the  easel.  Her  brows  contracted  thoughtfully, 
then  relaxed,  and  her  lips  parted. 

After  a  short  time  she  seemed  to  grow  con 
scious  of  the  intentness  of  his  gaze.  She  stole 
sidelong  glances  at  him,  her  touches  grew  hesi 
tating,  she  moved  uneasily  in  her  seat,  a  pretty 
confusion  troubled  her  features,  and  once  or 
twice  she  flushed  slightly. 

"  This  is  very  slow  for  you,"  she  said  at  last. 

"It's  regular  lotus  eating,"  he  answered, 
jumping  up  ;  "  but  I  see  you  can't  work  with 
people  looking  on." 

"  Haven't  you  got  a  cigar  or  something  pour 
passer  le  temps?  Or  perhaps  you  could  find 
me  another  bunch  of  arethusa." 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  out  of  bloom  ;  but  I'll  tell 
you  what :  do  you  like  cress  ?  " 

"  What's  cress  ?  " 

"  Water-cress." 


A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL.          25 

"  That  peppery  stuff  that  they  garnish  mut 
ton  chops  with?  No,  I  can't  say  that  I  do. 
But  mamma  dotes  on  it.  Does  it  grow  wild  ?  " 

"  The  wildest  sort  !  There  used  to  be  a 
ditch  here  somewhere  that  was  full  of  it.  Shall 
I  relieve  you  of  my  hated  presence  for  a  few 
minutes  and  go  look  for  some  ?  " 

"  Do,  like  a  good  man." 

So  he  wandered  off  and  botanized  about  for 
an  hour  or  so,  returning  at  intervals  to  ask  after 
the  progress  of  the  sketch  and  to  deposit  some 
floral  prize  or  other  at  the  sketcher's  feet.  By 
and  by  he  found  the  cress,  and  called  out : 

"  Here's  stacks  of  it !  " 

It  was  growing  in  a  trench  of  clear,  deepish 
water,  rooting  itself  in  the  sandy  bottom  under 
the  opposite  bank.  He  threw  himself  down  on 
the  edge  of  the  meadow  and  reached  out  for  it, 
tearing  it  away  by  handfuls  and  nibbling  the 
pungent  leaves.  Before  long  Miss  Venable 
heard  him  utter  an  exclamation  of  dismay. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  she  cried. 

"I've  dropped  my  glasses  in  the  water,"  he 
returned,  "and  I  can't  find  them  again." 

"  You  poor  thing !  Shall  I  come  and  help 
you  ?  " 

'*  Oh,  no.  Go  on  with  your  drawing.  The 
water  is  a  little  roily,  but  it  will  settle  soon  and 
then  I  can  see  the  bottom." 

A  few  minutes  passed. 

"  Found  them  yet  ?  "  she  called. 

"  Not  yet,"  he  shouted  back.  "  It's  like  a 
blind  man  looking  for  his  eyes." 


26          A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL. 

"I  will  come  and  help  you,"  she  laughed. 
"  Why,  there  they  are  " — as  she  arrived  upon 
the  spot  and  pointed  with  her  pencil.  "  Don't 
you  see  them  ?  There,  near  the  little  clump  of 
weeds." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't,"  he  answered,  peering 
into  the  stream.  "  You've  no  idea  how  awfully 
near-sighted  I  am.  Sproat  says  I  smell  at  a 
book  instead  of  reading  it." 

"  I'll  get  them  for  you,"  she  said,  kneeling 
clown  upon  the  brink. 

"  No,  don't.  Let  them  go.  They  are  out  of 
your  reach,  and  you'll  wet  your  dress." 

"  Will  I,  though  ?  "  she  replied.  She  unbut 
toned  the  sleeve  of  her  blouse  at  the  wrist  and 
rolled  it  up  to  the  shoulder ;  then,  lying  at  full 
length  on  the  bank,  thrust  her  arm  into  the 
water  and  fished  up  the  missing  glasses. 

"  Here,  take  them,"  she  said,  scrambling  to 
her  feet;  "you  may  be  thankful  they're  not 
broken." 

"  Thankful  doesn't  begin  to  express  my  feel 
ings.  But  really  you  oughtn't  to  have  done  it. 
I'm  afraid  you  have  wet  your  sleeve  after  all." 

She  stood  holding  out  her  bare  arm  horizon 
tally  and,  with  her  other  hand,  drew  aside  her 
skirt  to  keep  it  from  being  dripped  on. 

"  Will  you  lend  me  your  handkerchief,  Mr. 
Clitheroe  ?  " 

"  Allow  me,"  he  rejoined,  and,  stepping  to 
her  side,  began  to  mop  the  glistening  member 
softly  with  his  handkerchief.  She  glanced  at 
him  sharply  and  made  a  motion  as  if  to  with" 


A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL.  27 

draw  it,  but  thought  better  of  it  and  held  it 
still.  The  water-drops  stood  on  it  like  beads  of 
dew  on  marble.  His  eye  took  note  of  one 
string  of  them,  which  tapered  down  symmetric 
ally  from  the  bigness  of  a  pea  to  the  smallness 
of  a  pin's  head.  The  naked  limb  troubled  him 
with  its  whiteness  and  the  silky  fineness  of  the 
skin.  As  his  fingers  touched  the  firm  flesh, 
they  trembled  with  the  excitement  of  a  sudden 
lawless  impulse  to  close  upon  it,  to  caress  its 
curves,  to  carry  it  to  his  lips. 

"There!  "he  said  abruptly,  conscious  that 
she  was  watching  him  demurely,  and  abashed 
at  his  own  secret  temerity  ;  and  stepping  back 
ward,  he  thrust  the  handkerchief  into  his  pocket. 
She  lowered  her  arm  and  slowly  drew  down  the 
sleeve,  saying  nothing,  but  smiling  an  almost 
imperceptible  smile.  Ce  sour  ire  si  fin— si  fin — 
what  did  it  express  ?  A  shade  of  irony,  per 
haps,  or  even  of  disappointment,  of  disdain? 
What  does  a  girl  expect  of  a  man  ?  A  respect 
so  delicate  that  it  never  forgets  the  lady  in  the 
woman  ;  or  a  passion  so  imperious  that  it  does 
quite  the  contrary  ?  He  was  teased  by  a  doubt 
whether  he  had  gained  or  lost  in  her  favor  by 
his  resistance  to  an  impulse  which  she  must 
have  read  in  his  eyes. 

"Mercy  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Venable,  consult 
ing  a  watch  of  the  size  of  a  silver  dollar,  which  she 
drew  from  her  belt,  "  it's  long  after  six  and  we 
must  go.  But  I  must  do  a  few  strokes  more  on 
that  willow  bush— that  is,  if  you  can  wait." 
"Till  doomsday,"  he  answered. 


28          A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL. 

It  was  growing  dusk  when  they  gathered  up 
the  drawing  implements  and  bunches  of  cress 
and  wild  flowers  and  started  homeward.  They 
came  out  of  the  meadows  and  turned  down  the 
squalid  little  cross  street  which  led  to  the 
boulevard.  In  front  of  a  liquor  saloon,  where 
the  gas  was  not  yet  lighted,  lounged  a  group  of 
"corner-boys,"  ill-looking  thugs  with  sallow 
faces,  bullet  heads,  big  red  ears,  and  blue  mus 
taches.  They  were  making  the  summer  twilight 
hideous  with  curses. 

"  Tough  of  the  evening — horrible  tough  ! " 
murmured  Clitheroe  to  himself. 

As  Miss  Venable  and  her  escort  drew  near, 
the  group  fell  silent  and  stared  at  the  pair. 
Clitheroe,  too,  who  had  been  carrying  on  an 
animated  conversation,  stopped  speaking.  He 
felt  nervous  and  quickened  his  step  ;  but  his 
companion  seemed  unconscious  of  any  reason 
for  haste.  She  went  on  talking  in  a  slow,  dis 
tinct  voice  and  without  in  the  least  accelerating 
her  pace.  They  had  hardly  passed  the  door 
of  the  saloon  when  a  fusillade  of  insults  assailed 
them  from  the  rear. 

"  Get  onto  de  dude  wid  de  chippy." 

"  Hey,  young  feller,  watcher  doin'  wid  me 
sister  ?  " 

"  She  aint  none  o'  your  sister  ;  she's  my  best 
gal.  Aint  ye,  Susan  ?  " 

A  foul  jest  followed,  and  a  burst  of  coarse 
laughter.  Even  in  the  lessening  light,  Clitheroe 
could  see  her  cheek  flush  and  her  eyes  sparkle 
with  anger.  But  she  walked  slower  than  ever, 


A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL.  29 

as  if  scorning  to  retreat,  though  she  had  ceased 
talking. 

"  Excuse  me  for  subjecting  you  to  this,"  he 
said  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  think  we  had  better 
walk  as  fast  as  we  can."  He  was  shaking  with 
rage  and  excitement,  and  he  muttered  an  oath 
under  his  breath.  "  It's  the  best  way  never  to 
notice  such  animals,"  he  added. 

"  Oh,  quite  the  best  way,"  she  replied.  There 
was  a  tremble  in  her  speech,  and  it  seemed  to 
him  as  if  she  fairly  sauntered  along  beside  him. 
At  that  instant  a  missile  of  some  sort  struck 
her  in  the  cheek  and  fell  into  the  bosom  of  her 
dress.  She  stopped  with  an  exclamation,  and 
brushed  it  off.  It  was  a  quid  of  tobacco. 
Clitheroe  clenched  his  fists  and,  facing  about, 
glared  furiously  through  his  glasses,  then 
turned  and  strode  on  with  a  feeling  of  utter 
helplessness.  This  show  of  defiance  was 
greeted  with  derisive  jeers,  and  their  retreat  was 
followed  with  cat-calls,  cock-crows,  and  shouts 
of,  "  Give  him  a  chaw,  sissy."  "  Please  dont- 
cher  lick  me,  Mr.  Four-eyes  ;  I  aint  done  noth 
ing."  "  Oh,  mamma  !  "  etc. 

"  I  wish,"  said  Miss  Venable,  coming  to  a 
halt  for  an  instant  and  then  marching  on  again, 
"  I  wish  Frank — or  someone — was  here." 

Clitheroe  winced,  as  if  she  had  struck  him  in 
the  face. 

"  Let  me  go  back  and  pitch  into  that  gang," 
he  said. 

"  Not  on  any  account ;  come  on,  let's  get  out 
of  this  " — and  she  began  to  walk  rapidly. 


30          A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL. 

"  Sproat  would,  you  think." 

"  Oh,  but  he  is  so  big  and  strong — and  so 
perfectly  fearless.  And  then,"  phe  added,  in  an 
awkward  endeavor  to  take  the  sting  out  of  her 
involuntary  speech,  "  if  there  were  two  of  you, 
they  wouldn't  have  dared." 

They  went  swiftly  on  and  were  soon  out  of 
reach  of  further  annoyance.  Not  much  was 
spoken  between  them  for  a  while,  and  when 
their  talk  set  back  to  indifferent  topics,  it  was 
with  some  constraint  and  manifest  labor  that  it 
was  kept  going.  Clitheroe  had  got  a  hurt  in 
his  self-respect,  and  was  smarting  with  a  sense 
of  unmerited  shame.  It  had  been  one  of  those 
junctures  where  the  carefully  spun  fictions  of 
civilization  are  torn  aside  and  the  brutal  facts 
of  human  nature  stand  out  in  their  nakedness  : 
the  demand  of  the  female  upon  the  male  for 
protection  ;  her  instinctive  choice — her  absolute 
need — of  strength  and  physical  prowess.  It  was 
a  glimpse  into  primitive  conditions,  where  the 
woman  falls  to  the  strongest ;  a  vision  of 
pastures  where  bulls  fight  for  sleek  heifers,  and 
the  victor  takes  the  spoils.  In  some  way  he 
had  been  unequal  to  the  occasion  and  she  had 
made  him  feel  it.  And  yet  what  could  he  have 
done?  Or  what  could  Sproat  have  done,  or 
any  gentleman  or  man,  unless,  indeed,  a  pro 
fessional  bruiser,  or  a  policeman  with  billy  and 
revolver  ?  Should  he  have  involved  a  lady  in  a 
street  brawl?  Should  he  have  asked  her  to 
walk  on,  and  have  gone  back  himself  to  get 
satisfaction  from  a  gang  of  hoodlums,  with  the 


A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL.          31 

sure  result  of  being  shockingly  bullied,  beaten, 
perhaps  killed  ?  Killing,  he  told  himself 
proudly,  he  would  not  greatly  mind.  He  would 
have  gone  to  his  death  for  the  girl  at  his  side  in 
any  decent  and  gentlemanly  way — in  battle  or 
wreck  or  fire.  But  an  altercation  with  corner- 
rowdies,  possibly  the  police  court  next  morning 
— with  MissVenable  on  the  witness-stand— and 
the  newspapers,  and  the  ironical  condolences  of 
his  friends — no,  the  exigency  did  not  seem  to 
call  for  heroism  precisely.  What  is  courage  ? 
Is  it  not  often  an  accidental  mastery  of  the 
situation  ?  Or  even,  sometimes,  nothing  more 
than  obtuseness  to  ridicule  ? 

When  Clitheroe  left  his  charge  at  her  door 
that  evening,  he  knew  that  the  bud  of  promise 
which  had  shyly  put  forth  between  them  would 
never  unfold.  There  was  no  definite  change  in 
her  manner  toward  him  thenceforth  ;  and  when 
they  met  again,  as  they  continued  often  to  do, 
she  was  as  gracious  as  ever.  But  there  was  a 
subtle  readjustment  in  their  mutual  attitude. 
Tried  in  her  balances — coarse  ones,  he  felt — he 
had  been  found  wanting ;  and  she  had  mortified 
the  pride  of  his  manliness.  No  man  ever  really 
forgives  a  woman  for  thinking  him  a  coward. 

Many  times  the  scene  was  re-enacted  in  his 
dreams  with  fantastic  variations.  He  heard 
himself  say  to  his  companion  :  "  Excuse  me  for 
a  minute ;  go  on  to  the  end  of  the  block,  and  I 
will  join  you  there."  He  felt  himself,  with  a 
sense  of  exultation  and  power,  striking  right 
and,  left  among  his  insulters.  Then  curiously 


32          A    SUBURBAN  PASTORAL. 

the  point  of  view  shifted  and  he  saw  the  whole 
scene  with  the  eyes  of  a  spectator.  There  was 
a  scuffle  ;  someone  called  out,  "  Cut  the  d — d 
jay !  "  A  man  fell  to  the  sidewalk  and  lay 
still.  A  moment's  pause,  and  then  the  gang 
scattered  and  fled.  A  scream  sounded  through 
his  sleep,  and  the  girl  turned  and  ran  back.  In 
the  empty  street  and  the  fast-gathering  dusk,  she 
knelt  down  by  the  fallen  man  and  wrung  her 
hands,  while  his  voice  pronounced  with  diffi 
culty  the  word  Beatrice. 

Awaking  from  such  a  dream,  Clitheroe 
would  wonder  whether  melodrama  is  any  more 
essentially  tragical  than  farce. 


II. 

A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


A  MIDWINTER  NIGHTS  DREAM. 

|HERE  was  coasting  on  Rood's  Hill. 
Ever  since  four  o'clock,  when  the 
schools  had  let  out,  the  homeward- 
bound  farmer,  as  he  reached  the  top 
of  the  opposite  ridge,  where  the  cutting  wind 
made  him  draw  his  old  buffalo  tighter  about  his 
legs,  had  halted  his  sleigh  for  a  moment  to 
watch  the  white  slope  over  against  him  swarm 
ing  with  little  dark  objects  that  moved  swiftly 
down  and  slowly  up.  Now  it  was  dusk,  and  the 
hill  was  invisible  except  as  a  black  mass  against 
the  western  heaven.  But  still  the  continuous 
rattle  of  the  sleds  down  the  steep  incline  was 
heard,  spreading  into  a  long  roar  as  they  neared 
the  bottom,  and  echoing  down  the  narrow,  valley 
to  left  and  right.  But  when  the  lamp-posts  in 
the  suburban  streets  began  to  show  their  paral 
lel  or  radiating  lines  of  yellow  sparks,  and  the 
keen  wintry  glitter  of  the  stars  responded  from 
the  sky,  the  hill  became  deserted  of  all  but  a 
few  late  lingerers.  Now  the  school  children 
were  entering  their  house  doors,  bringing  in 
with  them  a  rush  of  cold  air.  With  fingers 
numb  and  red  under  their  wet  mittens,  they 
were  taking  off  their  rubber  boots  half  full  of 
snow,  and  hanging  their  worsted  tippets  on  the 

35 


3^        A  MIDWINTER  NIGHTS  DREAM. 

hooks  in  the  entry,  while  the  soft  lamplight 
and  the  smell  of  oysters  and  buttered  toast 
came  pleasantly  to  their  sharpened  senses 
through  the  door  of  the  warm  supper  room. 

A  few  of  the  bigger  boys  returned  to  the 
hill  for  an  hour  more  of  coasting  after  supper, 
and  did  penance  later  for  this  prolonged  enjoy 
ment,  with  sleepy  eyes  and  fingers,  over  the 
slates  which  had  to  be  filled  with  sums  before 
they  could  go  to  bed.  The  Gully  Brook  ran 
through  a  culvert  under  the  hill,  and  some  of 
the  coasters  were  dragging  tubs  full  of  water 
on  their  sleds  up  the  almost  precipitous  sides, 
and  pouring  it  over  the  road,  worn  bare  in 
spots,  to  form  a  coating  of  ice.  The  wind  had 
gone  down  at  sunset,  and  the  air,  though  in 
tensely  cold,  was  so  still  that  the  chill  was 
hardly  felt  by  anyone  in  active  motion. 

About  eight  o'clock,  when  the  schoolboys' 
"  pig-stickers  "  had  mostly  disappeared  from  the 
slide,  a  new  party  arrived  and  took  noisy  pos 
session.  This  consisted  of  young  men  and 
women,  equipped  with  sleds  of  a  substantial 
size,  convenient  for  coasting  in  pairs.  Soon  the 
frosty  quiet  of  the  night  was  broken  with  femi 
nine  talk  and  laughter,  the  calling  and  shouting 
of  men's  voices,  and  now  and  then  merry 
screams  where  some  heavily  laden  sledge  ran 
off  the  track  and,  gently  lifting  its  starboard 
runner,  dumped  its  freight  pell-mell  into  the 
powdery  snow  by  the  roadside.  The  double 
ripper,  the  toboggan,  and  the  bob-sled  of  a 
more  modern  era  slept  as  yet  "  in  the  bosom  of 


A  MIDWINTER  NIGHTS  DREAM.        37 

their  causes "  ;  but  a  plank  fastened  to  two 
sleds,  fore  and  aft,  and  steered  by  a  helmsman 
with  a  quick  eye  and  an  adequate  pair  of  boots, 
carried  some  dozen  souls  and  made  a  sufficient 
ripper  for  the  nonce. 

It  happened  that,  among  the  groups  con 
stantly  descending  and  reascending,  two  couples 
reached  the  top  at  the  same  moment.  The  first 
pair  were  walking  side  by  side,  the  young  man 
carrying  the  sled  by  its  rope  slung  over  his 
shoulder.  The  second  lady  was  seated  on  her 
sled  ;  her  swain  had  dragged  her  up  the  hill 
and  was  panting  slightly  from  the  exertion. 

"  Is  that  the  way  you  spoil  your  girl  ?  "  said 
the  first  man  as  he  gained  the  starting  point 
and  faced  about.  "You  shouldn't  do  it,  Wil- 
mot ;  you'll  demoralize  the  others.  There'll 
be  a  strike  as  soon  as  they  get  onto  the  scheme." 

"  Well,  now,"  answered  Wilmot,  "  what  do 
you  do  to  your  girl  to  make  her  walk  up  ?  " 

"  Make  me  walk  up,  indeed  ! "  said  that, 
young  woman,  with  a  toss  of  her  fur-lined 
hood.  "  I  choose  to  walk  up.  John  Brainard," 
she  cried,  with  a  tragic  gesture  toward  the 
landscape  in  general,  "wouldn't  you  be  de 
lighted  to  draw  me  up  that  hill  if  I  asked  you 
to  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Brainard,"  called  out  the  occupant  of 
the  other  sled  almost  in  the  same  breath, 
"aren't  you  ashamed  to  put  such  notions  into 
Harvey's  head  ?  He  has  been  perfectly  docile 
till  this  minute,  and  he  just  loves  to  draw  me." 

"  Brainard,  let's  swap  girls,"  said  Wilmot. 


38        A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

At  this  proposal  there  were  shrieks  and  ex 
clamations  of,  "  We  won't  be  swapped  !  As  if 
we  were  horses  !  Yes,  or  things  !  " 

"  How  much  does  yours  weigh  ?  "  inquired 
Brainard,  pondering  the  offer. 

"  How  much  do  you  weigh,  Sue  ? "  asked 
Wilmot,  turning  to  his  partner. 

"  Never  mind,"  replied  the  lady  addressed, 
rising  nimbly  from  the  sled.  "  If  I  am  too 
heavy  for  you,  and  Carrie  wants  the  pleasure  of 
walking  up-hill  with  you  instead  of  with  Mr. 
Brainard,  I  guess  Mr.  Brainard  can  pull  me  up 
hill  once  or  twice  without  hurting  himself." 

"  Come  along,  then,  Miss  Gillespie,"  said 
Wilmot,  twitching  his  empty  sled  into  position. 

"  Oh,  7  don't  care,"  said  Miss  Gillespie,  mov 
ing  slowly  away  from  her  first  cavalier  in  Wil- 
mot's  direction. 

The  exchange  was  laughingly  effected,  and 
Brainard,  having  seen  his  new  partner  comfort 
ably  seated,  with  her  feet  planted  on  the  cross 
bar,  her  knees  drawn  up  to  her  chin,  and  her 
skirts  tucked  closely  around  her,  gave  a  short 
run,  shoving  the  sled  before  him,  jumped  on 
behind,  and  away  they  sped  down  the  slide. 
The  long  plank  "  cruiser"  was  just  making  up 
its  load  for  a  fresh  trip,  amid  a  profusion  of 
giggling  and  chatter,  and  Wilmot  and  Miss 
Gillespie  waited  to  see  it  launched  and  to  fol 
low  down  in  its  wake.  When  Brainard 's  sled 
reached  the  bottom  of  the  hill  and  came  to  a 
stop  his  companion  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  What !     Aren't  you  going  to  let  me  draw 


A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM.        39 

you  back  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  thought  that  was 
part  of  my  contract." 

"  No,  indeed,"  she  answered  with  spirit. 
"  Harvey  proposed  the  swap  and  I  took  him 
up  on  it,  and  I'm  not  going  to  have  you  suffer 
by  the  bargain.  Come  along."  And  she 
started  vigorously  up  the  hill. 

"But,"  insisted  Brainard  as  he  walked  after 
her,  "  you  are  a  borrowed  article,  Miss  Chantry, 
and  borrowed  articles  must  be  used  with  care 
and  returned  in  good  condition.  Besides,  you 
are  not  accustomed  to  walking  up-hill,  you 
know.  Wilmot  has  pampered  you  into  effemi 
nacy  by  a  long  course  of  injudicious  indulgence." 

"The  idea!"  she  retorted.  "I  guess  my 
legs  are  as  good  as  Carrie  Gillespie's,  up-hill 
or  down  " — and  her  laugh  rang  out  hardily  on 
the  crisp  night  air. 

"So,  then,  I  shan't  have  a  chance  to  find  out 
how  much  you  weigh,  after  all  ?  " 

"Not  unless  I  faint  and  you  have  to  carry 
me.  But  I'll  bet  anything  that  she  makes 
Harvey  Wilmot  draw  her.  I  would,  if  I  were 
she.  Now  you  just  see." 

And  sure  enough,  on  their  second  flight  down 
the  hill,  they  passed  Wilmot  dragging  his  fair 
burden  upward. 

"  How  do  you  like  the  exchange  ?  "  he  yelled 
after  them. 

"Oh,  lovely — first  rate,"  they  shrieked  back 
in  concert ;  but  only  an  inarticulate  jumble  of 
syllables  reached  Wilmot's  ear,  broken  by  the 
rush  of  the  air  and  the  rumble  of  the  sled. 


40       A  MIDWINTER  NIGHTS  DREAM. 

This  time  Miss  Chantry  did  not  rise  when 
the  sled  stopped.  They  had  run  off  the  track 
a  little  way  and,  reaching  out  her  hand,  she 
broke  a  piece  from  the  clean  snow  crust  and 
nibbled  it  pensively  while  she  sat  looking  at 
the  stars. 

"  Confess  that  that  climb  has  tired  you," 
said  Brainard  as  he  stood  holding  the  sled  rope. 

"  I'm  not  the  least  tired,"  she  replied,  "but 
the  stopping  of  the  sled  gives  me  a  kind  of 
drowsy  feeling,  like  '  letting  the  old  cat  die '  in 
a  swing.  The  runners  begin  to  go  slower — 
and  slower — and  slower,  and  finally  they  come 
to  a  standstill  so  softly — 

Her  voice  died  away  with  a  diminuendo  effect 
to  indicate  the  gradual  cessation  of  the  motion. 

"  I  hate  to  shake  off  the  sensation  by  stand 
ing  up,"  she  added. 

"Don't  shake  it  off,  then,"  he  said.  "Sit 
still,  and  I'll  draw  you  up.  Or  what  do  you 
say  to  trying  the  other  hill  ?  The  grade  is  not 
so  steep,  and  I  can  pull  you  up  it  on  a  run." 

"  Very  well,"  she  acquiesced,  "  but  don't 
run.  You'll  break  my  repose." 

A  few  of  the  party,  deserting  the  main  coast, 
now  somewhat  crowded  with  sleds,  had  betaken 
themselves  to  the  opposite  rise,  which  was 
longer,  though  of  gentler  slope.  These  were 
presumably  sentimental  couples  who  found 
here  a  sort  of  side  show  or  withdrawing  room 
whose  comparative  seclusion  offered  a  better 
opportunity  for  flirtation. 

"  Shall  we  try  that  again  ?  "  asked  Brainard 


A  MID  WINTER  NIGHT ' S  DREA M.        4 1 

of  his  companion,  when  they  had  accomplished 
their  descent  and  paused  in  the  intervale,  "or 
shall  we  go  back  to  the  first  slide  and  see  if 
our  old  pards  have  got  tired  of  each  other  and 
want  to  swap  back  ?  " 

"  Oh,  let's  try  the  new  one  once  more,"  she 
answered.  "  It  isn't  so  swift,  and  doesn't  take 
my  breath  away  so.  Besides,  it's  so  nice  and 
retired  ;  it  seems  like  going  out  on  the  piazza. 
at  a  dance  and  getting  away  from  the  fiddles 
and  gaslight.  But  you  shan't  drag  me  up 
again,  you  poor  beast  of  burden.  'Seared  is, 
of  course,  my  heart,'  but  hard  though  I  may 
seem,  I  am  not  quite  adamant.  Sometimes 
I  am  almost  human." 

"  Well,"  replied  Brainard,  "  we'll  compromise, 
then,  by  your  taking  my  arm." 

"  It's  not  at  all  necessary,"  she  said,  but  she 
took  it  notwithstanding,  and  they  walked  rather 
slowly  up  the  hill.  At  times  her  breathing  was 
a  little  short,  and  now  and  then,  where  the  foot 
ing  was  slippery  or  rough,  her  slender  figure 
swayed  against  him  for  support ;  and  as  they 
neared  the  hill-top,  he  even  fancied  a  certain 
caressing  tone  in  her  voice,  and  something 
relaxed  and  confiding  in  the  pressure  of  her 
arm.  On  the  way  up  they  passed  two  or  three 
sleds  going  down,  but  they  found  the  head  of 
the  slide  deserted.  By  day  the  eminence  where 
they  stood  commanded  an  extensive  prospect 
of  hill  and  valley  toward  the  east.  But  under 
the  stars  all  that  could  be  seen  was  a  dim 
white  stretch  of  rolling  country  broken  by 


42        A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

mysterious  shadows,  and  sown  here  and  there 
with  the  lights  of  suburban  dwellings  and  of 
scattered  farmhouses  beyond.  Into  this  uncer 
tain  landscape,  whose  loneliness  and  peace  con 
trasted  with  the  noisy  mirth  that  they  had  left, 
the  pair  gazed  for  a  few  moments  in  silence. 

"  What  a  lovely  night  it  is  !  "  said  the  girl  at 
length. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  it's  a  sin  to  go  to  bed  on 
such  a  night.  It's  a  waste  of  life.  Did  you 
ever  try  staying  up  all  night  out  of  doors  ?  "  he 
resumed  after  a  pause. 

"  No,  indeed,"  she  answered,  with  a  slight 
laugh  ;  "  I  am  too  much  of  a  sleepy  head." 

"  I  have  often  meant,"  he  pursued  in  a  tone 
of  reverie,  "  to  take  a  whole  night  some  time, 
and  spend  it  a  la  belle  ttotle.  Just  think  how 
much  we  miss  !  I  would  like  to  walk  around 
in  the  edges  of  woods  and  old  pastures  till  the 
moon  set,  and  watch  the  changes  of  the  shadows, 
and  listen  to  the  crickets,  and  hear  the  sounds  of 
creatures  that  are  abroad  in  the  dark  ;  perhaps 
see  unknown  stars  that  never  rise  till  after  mid 
night." 

"  Yes,  in  summer,"  she  admitted,  "  it  might 
be  nice  and  wild." 

"  Or  in  winter  either,"  he  persisted. 
"  Wouldn't  it  be  fine  now,  for  instance — this 
very  night — to  go  on  and  on,  '  over  the  hills 
and  far  away,'  and  see  what  strange  country 
we  would  come  to  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  if  the  night  would 
only  last  forever — but  it  won't." 


A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM.        43 

"  Doesn't  it  seem  to  you,"  he  went  on,  point 
ing  to  the  east,  "  as  if  some  new  world  lay  over 
there,  all  full  of  promise  and  adventure,  if  we 
only  had  the  pluck  to  undertake  it  ?  It  does  to 
me," 

"  '  What  shall  I  see  if  I  ever  go  over  the 
mountains  high  ?  '  "  she  repeated  dreamily. 

"  Shall  we  go  down  this  next  hill  ?  "  he  pro 
posed  abruptly,  after  another  pause. 

"  What  for  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  but  let's." 

"  Would  you  ?  " 

<l  Wouldn't  you  ?  " 

She  turned  her  eyes  full  upon  his  in  the  clear 
starlight  and  deliberated  in  silence  : 

The  swan's-down  feather 

That  stands  upon  the  swell  at  the  full  of  tide, 
And  neither  way  inclines. 

At  last  she  answered,  '•  Why,  if  you  like." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  and  she  seated  herself  re 
signedly  on  the  sled. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  hill  they  arose  together. 
Nothing  was  said,  but,  as  if  by  a  common  un 
derstanding,  they  continued  to  walk  on  mechan 
ically  in  the  same  direction.  This  time  he  did 
not  offer  her  his  arm,  and  they  mounted  the 
acclivity  together  without  speaking.  Once  only 
she  stopped  and  asked  : 

"  Aren't  we  getting  rather  far  away  from  the 
others  ?  " 

"  We  can  go  back  any  minute,"  he  rejoined, 
and  they  walked  on. 


44       A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

At  the  top  of  this  hill  they  stopped  again. 
They  were  now  cut  off  by  the  intervening 
ridge  from  the  sounds  of  the  coasting  party. 
The  cold  had  moderated  greatly  within  an  hour, 
and  yet  there  was  no  film  of  vapor  in  the 
heavens.  It  was  one  of  those  halcyon  nights, 
not  infrequent  in  the  winter  climate  of  New 
England — whose  changeableness  is  its  glory  as 
well  as  its  danger — when  the  wind  has  fallen, 
and  the  temperature  has  risen  so  rapidly  that,  in 
contrast  with  the  previous  rigor  of  the  season, 
the  weather  has  almost  a  summer  balm,  and 
one  can  walk  abroad  comfortably  without  an 
overcoat.  In  the  morning  there  would  be  a 
thaw,  but  now  the  absence  of  the  sun  kept 
things  still  at  freezing  point.  The  air  was  just 
cold  enough  to  be  bracing,  but  so  dry  and  still 
that  it  made  upon  the  face  only  that  feeling  of 
freshness  which  comes  with  the  evening  breeze 
in  June. 

"Did  you  ever  read  Hawthorne's  story  of 
'  Wakefield  ?  '  "  asked  Brainard. 

"  I  don't  remember  it.     What  was  it  about  ?  " 

"  A  steady-going  old  fellow,  who  has  lived  a 
life  as  regular  as  clockwork  for  years  with  his 
steady-going  wife.  All  of  a  sudden  an  impulse 
takes  him.  He  goes  out  one  October  evening, 
rents  lodgings  in  the  next  street,  disguises  him 
self  completely,  and  for  twenty  years  never 
goes  home  again  and  is  given  up  for  dead." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  have  read  it,"  she  murmured. 

"Didn't  you  ever  feel  that  impulse:  to  cut 
yourself  off  suddenly  from  the  past  by  one 


A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM.        45 

irrevocable  act ;  to  burn  all  your  ships  behind 
you  ;  to  step  across  a  narrow  crack  which  you 
know  will  widen  into  a  crevice,  and  then  into  a 
chasm  that  you  can  never  get  back  across  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  with  a  suppressed  ex 
citement  in  her  voice ;  "  I  have  come  to  such 
places  and  felt  the  temptation  just  to  put  my 
foot  across  and  see  what  would  happen.  I 
have  heard  something  say  in  my  ear,  '  Now  is 
your  chance — now — now  ;  do  it — do  it.'  And 
then,"  she  added,  "  I  have  looked  down  into  the 
crevice  and  found  no  bottom  to  it,  and  turned 
around  and  gone  home  again." 

"  Yes,"  said  Brainard,  "  we  always  do  go 
back.  We  never  have  spirit  enough  to  take  the 
venture.  I  used  to  ramble  along  the  docks  in 
New  York  and  look  at  the  ocean  steamers  get 
ting  ready  to  weigh  anchor,  and  a  dozen  times 
I've  been  on  the  point  of  walking  aboard  one  of 
them  and  taking  passage  to  whatever  part  of 
the  world  it  was  bound  for.  But  I  never  did." 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  but  answered  noth 
ing.  And  now  a  tender  white  radiance  began 
to  suffuse  the  eastern  heaven,  and  presently  a 
point  and  then  a  rim  of  silver  lifted  itself  above 
the  horizon. 

"  The  moon  !  "  they  exclaimed  together. 
They  watched  the  planet  until  its  gibbous  disk 
had  risen  free  of  the  sky-line,  and  long  shadows 
from  trees  and  fences  wavered  toward  them 
across  the  snow  crust,  sparkling  with  crystal 
reflections. 

"  Sue,"  said   Brainard   in  a  low  voice  that 


4  6        A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

thrilled  with  emotion,  "  shall  we  go  on  toward 
that  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  replied. 

As  they  faced  each  other  in  the  new  light  of 
the  moon,  it  might  have  seemed  that  the  super 
stition  which  attributes  madness  to  lunar  in 
fluence  was  not  altogether  fancy.  Whether 
because  his  eyes  were  dazzled  and  full  of  moon 
shine,  her  own  looked  larger  and  brighter  to 
him  than  by  day,  and  her  face  had  an  exalted 
and  bewitched  expression.  Whatever  was 
trivial  or  familiar  in  the  girl  that  he  had  known 
was  strained  away,  and  he  found  himself  alone 
in  the  enchanted  night  with  a  woman  grown 
suddenly  sweet  and  strange. 

"  Because,"  he  said,  speaking  with  momen 
tous  slowness,  "  if  you  dare  to  go  on  any  far 
ther  with  me,  we  may  never  come  back." 

"  I  never  take  a  dare,"  she  answered  defiantly. 

"Dare  you  kiss  me,  then?"  he  asked,  ap 
proaching  her. 

She  made  no  reply,  but  in  the  steady,  auda 
cious  fixure  of  her  regard  he  found  an  answer, 
and  seizing  her  in  his  arms,  he  kissed  her  re 
peatedly  on  her  cold  cheeks  and  her  warm  lips, 
until  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and 
stood  as  if  dazed. 

"  Now  we  have  crossed  the  chasm,"  she 
said  when  he  released  her. 

"  We  can  still  go  back,"  he  answered,  over 
taken  with  an  instant  misgiving,  as  the  spirit 
of  the  inevitable,  which  he  had  so  rashly  con 
jured  up,  rose  before  him  in  its  full  stature. 


A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM,        47 

"  What !  after  that  ?  " 

"  After  what  ?  " 

"  After  what  you  have  done  to  me." 

"  Pshaw  !     A  kiss  !     What's  that  ?  " 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  back  ?  "  she  asked,  with 
an  intonation  of  irony  which  provoked  him  into 
a  feeling  of  shame  for  his  weakness. 

"Can  you  think  it?"  he  demanded.  "No. 
Get  on  the  sled." 

Again  she  seated  herself  upon  the  odd  vehi 
cle  of  their  flight,  and  taking  his  place  behind 
her,  he  steered  to  the  east.  It  needs  not  to 
say  what  relations  with  others  these  two  had 
formed  or  inherited  in  the  world  which  they 
were  leaving  behind  them  in  this  unexpected 
and,  as  it  were,  accidental  manner.  Doubtless 
in  the  sober  daytime,  the  ties  that  they  were 
sundering,  the  responsibilities  that  they  were 
throwing  off,  the  places  that  they  were  leaving 
empty  forever,  would  have  worn  the  air  of  bless 
ings  rather  than  of  burdens  or  constraints. 
But  the  solitary  quiet  of  the  winter  night,  that 
lay  ail  unbroken  about  them,  seemed  to  shut 
them  away  in  a  universe  of  their  own  :  an  un 
real  universe  of  starshine  and  snow,  where  all 
manner  of  fantastic  dreams  might  come  true ; 
a  lawless,  unpeopled  universe — or  peopled  by 
themselves  alone,  and  owing  no  allegiance  to 
the  claims  of  day. 

It  was,  at  all  events,  characteristic  of  human 
nature  that,  the  step  once  taken,  they  dismissed 
all  thought  of  consequences  and  yielded  them 
selves  to  the  current.  As  they  receded  farther 


48        A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

and  farther  from  home,  the  elastic  air  and  the 
sorcery  of  the  moonlight,  the  very  unheard-of 
wildness  of  their  adventure,  raised  their  spirits 
to  a  mood  of  buoyant  and  reckless  gayety. 
They  coasted  down  all  the  hills.  Up  the  slopes 
and  along  the  levels,  by  turns  they  walked  or 
Brainard  drew  her  on  the  sled.  An  unwonted 
strength  and  lightness  possessed  him,  and  he 
felt  no  fatigue ;  sometimes  they  danced  or 
waved  their  arms  to  see  the  grotesque  motions 
of  their  shadows  on  the  snow.  Sometimes  they 
sang  together  or  whooped  in  the  still  air,  and 
listened  for  the  echo  that  came  back  to  them 
from  a  hillside  or  from  some  old  barn  standing 
alone  among  the  white  fields.  For  they  had 
now  cleared  the  suburbs  and  come  out  into  the 
open  country.  They  talked  about  themselves 
and  about  the  appearances  of  the  night  and  the 
landscape,  and  repeated  fragments  of  poetry, 
and  told  each  other  their  likes  and  dislikes. 
They  avoided  all  mention  of  yesterday  and  to 
morrow,  and  spoke  only  of  the  present.  Their 
breach  with  the  past  was  complete,  and  they 
seemed  to  themselves  to  be  wandering  on  and 
on  in  a  dream  from  which  they  would  never 
awake.  The  girl's  bearing  toward  her  new 
found  lover  was  as  capricious  as  the  circum 
stances  in  which  they  found  themselves.  At 
times  she  suffered  his  caresses  and  even  returned 
them  ;  and  then  again,  with  an  abrupt  alterna 
tion  of  coyness,  she  would  say,  "  Please  let  go 
my  hand,  Mr.  Brainard,  and  walk  farther  off." 
The  moon  rose  higher,  a  little  wind  began  to 


A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM.        49 

blow,  and  puffs  of  powdery  snow  were  whirled 
along  the  road  and  across  the  fields.  Miss 
Chantry  had  not  spoken  for  nearly  an  hour,  and 
had  remained  sitting  on  the  sled  while  Brainard 
drew  her  over  a  long  plain.  Of  a  sudden  she 
asked,  "  What  time  is  it  ?  " 

He  looked  at  his  watch,  turning  the  face  to 
ward  the  moon. 

"  My  wa*tch  has  stopped,"  he  answered.  "  I 
forgot  to  wind  it  yesterday,  and  it  has  run 
down.  But  I  know  that  it  must  be  long  past 
midnight." 

"  How  far  have  we  come  ?  " 
"  Oh,  five  or  six  miles,  I  should  say." 
"  Is  it  too  late  to  go  back  ?  " 
"  To  go  back  !  "  he  exclaimed.     "  You  can't 
mean  it,  darling  "—and  he  came  and  knelt  be 
side  her  in  the  snow. 

"  It  is  too  late,"  she  cried  passionately,  push 
ing  him  away.  "  They  have  missed  me  long 
since  ;  there  is  a  hue  and  cry  after  me  now. 
Oh,  what  a  fool  I  am,  what  a  fool ! "  and  she 
burst  into  tears. 

"  Don't,  sweetheart,  don't,"  he  remonstrated  ; 
"you  will  never  repent  it,  I  promise  you— I 
promise  you." 

But  he  felt  a  sinking  of  the  heart,  and  a  sick 
ening  uncertainty  of  everything.  The  reaction 
had  come  to  them  both,  and  the  awakening. 

"  Where  are  you  taking  me  to  ?  "  she  inquired 
at  length. 

"  I  hadn't  thought  distinctly  of  that— or  of 
anything  else  but  you.  But  Reddingham  is 


50       A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

about  five  or  six  miles  ahead,  and  Clark's  Mills 
is  still  nearer.     We  can  go  there." 

"  So  that  is  your  '  new  world/ "  she  ex 
claimed  bitterly.  "  Redclingham,  and  Clark's 
Mills  !  " 

"  There  are  places  beyond  Reddingham,"  he 
said  sullenly.  "  It's  on  the  railroad,  and  we 
can  take  the  morning  train  to — I  don't  care 
where — the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,  if  you 
like." 

"  The  morning  train — the  morning  train  ! ' 
she  repeated.  "  There  should  be  no  morning 
for  fools  like  us." 

"  Sue,"  he  entreated,  "  be  brave.  You  are 
.tired,  you  are  excited.  You'll  feel  better  soon." 

"I  am  tired,"  she  answered  listlessly,  "  and 
I  am  cold." 

"  Of  course  you  are,  poor  love — poor  love, 
and  I  am  a  brute  not  to  have  thought  of  it. 
See  here,  I've  got  my  brandy  flask  in  my  over 
coat  pocket ;  take  a  pull  at  this  and  it  will  warm 
you  up." 

She  took  a  draught  of  the  dark-brown  liquor, 
in  which  the  moon  made  golden  reflections, 
then  shuddered,  and  settled  herself  once  more 
on  the  sled. 

"  We  could  go  back,"  said  Brainard  hesitat 
ingly,  "  if  you  insist  upon  it,  but — good  Heavens, 
to  what  ?  And  it's  as  near  to  Reddingham  as 
to  Burlington." 

"  No,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head  vene-* 
mently.  "  We're  in  for  it.  Go  on.  But  you 
are  tired.  Let  me  walk." 


A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM.        51 

"  Not  I  —  not  I  ;  keep  your  seat.  Do  you  feel 
warmer  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  awfully  sleepy." 

"  Lie  clown  on  the  sled  ;  it's  long  enough  ;  I'll 
put  my  coat  over  you,  and  perhaps  you  can  get 
a  nap.'' 

She  curled  up  on  the  sled,  with  her  hand 
under  her  head.  He  took  off  his  heavy  over 
coat,  tucked  it  around  her,  and  cutting  off  a 
length  of  superfluous  rope  from  the  sled,  wound 
it  about  her  twice  and  tied  it. 

"  Now  you  are  tied  on,  like  Mazeppa,"  he  said, 
with  a  forced  laugh. 

"  You  need  the  coat,"  she  murmured. 

"  Not  in  the  least  ;  it  hampers  me  dreadfully. 
You  shut  your  little  eyes  now,  and  I'll  take  you 
to  Reddingham  in  no  time." 

Grasping  the  rope,  he  toiled  on  with  renewed 
energy.  At  first  he  felt  chilly  without  his  over 
coat,  but  the  exercise  soon  warmed  his  blood. 
Gradually  he  was  overcome  by  drowsiness. 
The  vast  white  landscape  glimmered  and  swam 
before  his  eyes.  He  caught  himself  nodding, 
but  still  staggered  mechanically  forward,  though 
with  increasing  slowness.  About  cockcrow 
they  passed  through  a  little  town,  and  he 
thought  of  Sir  Galahad  : 

When,  on  my  goodly  charger  borne, 
Through  dreaming  towns  I  go, 

The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn, 
The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 


This  was  Clark's  Mills,  a  compact  manufa 


52        A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

turing  hamlet  about  three  miles  from  Redding- 
ham.  The  houses  stood  up  stark  and  dead  in 
the  moon.  In  one  window  a  light  was  burning, 
and  Brainard  thought,  as  he  pushed  the  sled 
rapidly  before  him  down  the  pavement,  how 
strange  it  must  sound  to  the  citizen,  waking 
casually  in  the  night,  to  hear  the  rumble  of  run 
ners,  as  if  some  ghostly  sledding  party  was  dis 
porting  itself  in  silence  at  that  uncanny  hour  in 
the  deserted  street. 

After  leaving  the  town,  the  hills  grew  steeper 
and  the  scenery  wilder,  intersected  from  left  to 
right  by  valleys  which  narrowed  into  woody 
ravines.  From  the  depth  of  these  came,  now 
and  then,  the  long  howl  of  a  farmer's  dog  bay 
ing  the  moon,  and  once  the  yell  of  a  screech- 
owl  resounded  from  a  distant  wood. 

Miss  Chantry  seemed  to  have  fallen  asleep. 
The  impression  of  unreality,  the  sensation  of 
moving  through  a  dream,  grew  stronger  in 
Brainard's  mind.  All  manner  of  wild  and  fan 
tastic  images  flitted  through  his  brain  ;  his  eyes 
got  heavier  and  heavier.  Nothing  kept  him 
from  falling  but  the  exertion  necessary  to  drag 
the  sled  through  the  snow.  For  the  track  had 
become  now  almost  unbroken  :  he  had  evi 
dently  left  the  highway  and  was  on  some  un 
frequented  road  where  few  sleighs  had  passed. 
At  the  top  of  a  hill  he  roused  himself  and  came 
to  a  halt.  He  was  dead  tired  and  felt  really 
unable  to  go  on.  The  moon  was  now  getting 
low  in  the  west.  It  must  be,  he  thought, 
about  three  o'clock,  and  they  ought  to  be  near- 


A  MID  WIN  TER  NIGHT '  S  DREA  M.        5  3 

ing  Reddingham,  but  no  symptom  of  a  town 
appeared.  The  summit  was  a  high  one  and 
overlooked  a  region  of  snowy  hillsides  topped 
with  gray  woods.  He  stepped  to  the  sled  and 
gazed  down  upon  the  unconscious  girl.  Her 
finely  chiseled  features,  in  the  moonlight  and  in 
the  relaxation  of  sleep,  had  the  softness  of  a 
child's.  Her  long  lashes  shadowed  her  cheek, 
whose  polished  roundness,  as  it  took  the  light, 
looked  almost  infantile  or  cherubic,  while  be 
neath  the  curve  of  her  under  lip  lay  a  little  well 
of  shade.  There  was  something  helpless  and 
confiding  in  her  attitude.  She  lay  on  the  sledge 
like  a  bride  in  her  bride-bed,  with  a  suggestion 
of  domestic  intimacy  which  brought  into  Brai- 
nard's  heart  a  sudden  rush  of  pity.  The  stop 
ping  of  the  sled  aroused  her. 

"  I  am  not  asleep,"  she  said,  opening  her  eyes* 
but  not  offering  to  move.  "  Is  anything  the 
matter  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  we  are  lost,"  he  replied. 
"  Lost !  "  she  exclaimed. 
She  sat  up  at  once,  and  then,  removing  the 
coat  which  had  covered  her  and  freeing  herself 
from  the  rope,  she  rose  to  her  feet  and  stared 
about  her. 

"  Yes,"  said  Brainard  wearily,  sitting  down 
on  a  rock  which  projected  from  the  snow; 
"Reddingham  ought  to  be  over  there  some 
where,  and  not  more  than  a  mile  or  two  away. 
But  I  see  no  signs  of  it.  I  must  have  taken  the 
wrong  turning  after  leaving  Clark's  Mills." 
"  Can't  we  ask  our  way  at  some  house  ?  " 


$4       A  MIDWINTER  NIGHTS  DREAM. 

"  We  haven't  passed  a  house  forever  an  hour 
and  we  seem  to  be  getting  into  a  more  and 
more  God-forsaken  country.  This  road  is  taper 
ing  out,  for  one  thing,  and  we  will  have  to  go 
back  or  else  take  to  the  crust." 

He  was  still  speaking  when,  on  the  opposite 
hillside,  a  ruddy  glare  flashed  out  on  the  pale 
night — a  parallelogram  of  living  coal,  against 
which  could  be  clearly  descried  the  black 
figure  of  a  man  moving  forward  and  back. 

"  What  is  that  ? "  cried  Miss  Chantry, 
startled. 

"  Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  leaping  to  his  feet,  "it's 
a  charcoal  pit.  Now  I  know  about  where  we 
are.  But  we  have  come  up  into  the  Woodridge 
hills,  a  long  way  off  from  the  direct  road  to 
Reddingham." 

"  Hadn't  we  better  go  there  and  inquire  our 
way  ?  "  she  suggested. 

"  I  suppose  we  had,"  he  replied  after  a 
moment's  hesitation.  "  These  charcoal-burners 
are  apt  to  be  a  tough  crowd.  But  there  seems 
to  be  no  other  way.  It  looks  like  the  mouth  of 
hell,"  he  added,  "  with  Satan  feeding  the  fires." 

They  watched  the  weird  spectacle  for  a  few 
minutes  without  moving.  It  was  only  one 
more  fantastic  vision  of  this  night  of  fantasies 
and  dreams. 

From  the  open  door  of  the  pit,  a  path  of  rosy 
light  streamed  clown  the  hillside  and  across  the 
frozen  surface  of  a  small  pond  in  the  hollow, 
The  illumination  also  made  visible  a  group  of 
two  or  three  buildings  which  stood  a  little  to 


A  MIDWINTER  NIGHTS  DREAM.        55 

one  side  of  the  pit  and  somewhat  lower  on  the 
slope. 

"  The  shortest  way  will  be  to  leave  the  road 
here  and  go  'cross  lots  over  the  crust.  It  will 
bear/'  said  Brainard,  stamping  on  a  sample 
piece  of  it  to  try  its  strength.  "  Come  on,  quick, 
before  they  shut  off  the  light." 

He  took  up  the  sled  and  helped  her  over  the 
ditch  and  the  rail  fence  into  an  open  hillside 
pasture.  For  the  last  time  they  took  their  seats 
upon  the  sled,  and  the  runners  were  soon  glid 
ing  swiftly  down  the  glazed  surface  of  the  field, 
which  glinted  in  the  moonbeams  like  the  icing 
of  a  gigantic  pound-cake.  They  descended  at 
a  constantly  accelerating,  and  at  last  really 
frightful,  speed.  Brainard  had  all  that  he  could 
do  to  guide  the  sled  by  digging  with  his  heel 
into  the  crust.  Miss  Chantry  gripped  the  edges 
of  the  board  and  held  on  with  suspended  pulse, 
while  the  air  rushed  past  their  faces  like  a 
whirlwind. 

"  Pray  Heaven  there  are  no  stumps  or  fence- 
posts  in  the  way,"  was  his  secret  thought.  But 
in  a  few  seconds,  to  his  great  relief,  they  reached 
the  bottom  and  rushed  out  upon  the  snow- 
covered  ice  of  the  pond.  Suddenly  the  girl 
screamed.  Right  across  their  course,  and  only 
a  few  yards  ahead,  she  saw  a  black  streak  of 
open  water.  She  had  just  time  to  throw  her 
self  sideways  upon  the  ice,  falling  close  to  the 
edge  of  the  water,  into  which  the  sled,  and 
Brainard  with  it,  plunged  and  disappeared.  At 
the  same  moment  the  door  of  the  coal  pit 


56        A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

closed  and  the  light  went  out.  Instantly  she 
began  shouting  for  help,  but  it  seemed  an  age 
before  an  answering  hallo  came  back  from  the 
hill,  and  a  still  longer  age  before  Brainard's 
head  emerged  from  the  belt  of  dark  water, 
rippling  under  the  moon,  upon  which  her  eyes 
were  staring  in  an  agony  of  fear.  He  rose  near 
the  opposite  side  of  the  opening  and  grasped 
the  edge,  which  was  even  and  firm,  having  been 
cut  with  an  ice  plow. 

"  O  God !  O  God  ! "  she  cried,  wringing  her 
hands,  "  what  can  I  do  ?  I  can't  get  near 
you." 

"  Go  back  from  the  edge,"  he  gasped  ;  "  I  can 
hold  on.  Call  for  help." 

"  I  have.  Oh,  please  hold  on.  Only  a  min 
ute.  There  !  I  hear  them  coming." 

Steps  were  now  heard  crashing  hurriedly 
down  the  hillside  through  the  crust  from  the 
direction  of  the  charcoal  pits. 

"  This  way  !  "  she  called.  "  For  God's  sake, 
be  quick  ;  there's  a  man  drowning.  Oh,  Fred, 
can  you  hold  on  a  bit  longer  ?  " 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  with  chattering  teeth, 
"  but  the  cold  is  horrible.  Look  out  for  a 
board." 

She  ran  to  and  fro  distractedly,  but  not  even 
a  stick  was  to  be  seen  on  the  white  floor  of  the 
pond.  But  now  a  man  ran  out  from  the  oppo 
site  bank  and  approached  the  opening. 

"  Hang  on,"  he  called  out.  "  The  ice  is  solid ; 
it  won't  break.  I'll  get  you  out  in  a  jiffy." 

He  neared   the   edge   cautiously  and,  lying 


A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM.        57 

down  at  full  length,  held  out  both  hands  to 
Brainard. 

"  Leave  go  the  ice  and  get  a  grip  on  my 
hands,"  he  directed. 

"  Oh,  how  can  I  help  ?  "  cried  Miss  Chantry. 
"  Where  can  I  get  a  board  or  something  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  no  board,"  returned  the  man  ; 
"  run  around  to  this  side,  quick,  and  lend  a 
hand." 

The  opening  was  only  a  few  rods  long,  and 
in  a  twinkling  she  was  beside  the  prone  form  of 
the  rescuer. 

"  Now,  lady,"  said  the  latter,  "  you  git  down 
on  your  knees,  take  a  holt  o'  this  arm,  and  pull. 
Brace  yourself  agin  the  ice — it'll  hold.  I'll  yank 
on  the  other  arm.  When  we  git  you  up's  fur's 
the  waist,  young  feller,  you  jest  lay  your  leg 
out  on  the  ice  and  we'll  roll  you  out." 

There  was  a  short,  sharp  struggle,  and  then 
Brainard  lay  shivering  and  dripping  on  the  ice. 

"  You  had  a  close  call  this  time,  boss,  and  no 
mistake,"  said  the  man,  who  was  panting  from 
his  exertions.  "  How  in  hell  did  you  git  here, 
anyway  ?  "  he  added  with  open-mouthed  won 
der. 

"  Never  mind  that  now,"  rejoined  Brainard, 
rising  with  some  difficulty  to  his  feet ;  "  I  must 
get  to  a  fire  and  have  these  clothes  off  in  a 
hurry.  I'm  chilled  to  the  marrow." 

"Do  you  feel  stiff?  Can  you  run?  Well, 
then,  cut  up  to  the  shanty.  There's  a  fire  and 
there's  clothes,  sich  as  they  be,  and  there's 
whisky." 


58        A  MIDWINTER  NIGHTS  DREAM. 

The  three  ascended  the  hill  and  the  man 
threw  open  the  door  of  an  unplastered  wooden 
cabin,  divided  by  a  rude  partition  into  two 
rooms.  In  one  of  these  was  an  air-tight  stove 
which  threw  out  an  intense  heat  from  a  fire  of 
oak  billets.  In  the  other  was  a  bed,  and  a  row 
of  coarse  garments  hung  from  the  wall.  Miss 
Chantry,  who  was  pale,  silent,  and  very  much 
agitated,  paced  the  floor  nervously  in  the  outer 
room,  while  their  host  took  Brainard  into  the 
penetralia,  helped  him  to  strip  off  his  wet  cloth 
ing,  and  furnished  him  with  a  change  of  raiment. 
In  a  few  minutes  he  joined  her  by  the  fire  and 
assured  her  that  he  was  as  good  as  new.  The 
charcoal  burner  went  out  to  look  for  the  sled. 

"  Well,  now,  what  next  ?  "  inquired  Brainard 
as  the  companion  of  his  adventure  paused  oppo 
site  him  in  her  restless  walk.  She  looked  at 
him  with  a  new  resolution  in  her  eyes. 

"  It  was  not  to  be,"  she  said.  "  This  is  a 
providence — an  interposition." 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  returned,  "  it  is  an  interruption, 
that  is  all." 

"Just  think,"  she  whispered,  "if  you  had 
been  drowned."  She  shuddered,  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  come,  now,  Sue,"  he  remonstrated,  and 
tried  to  take  her  hand. 

"  No,  don't,"  she  cried,  breaking  away  ;  "  I'll 
never  forgive  myself.  I've  been  dreaming  all 
night.  I've  been — I  don't  know  what  I've  been. 
But  I'm  wide  awake  enough  now," 

He  was  silent, 


A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM.        59 

"  What  time  is  it?  "  she  asked. 

He  pointed  to  a  small  wooden  clock  that 
stood  on  a  shelf. 

"  Four  o'clock  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  There  is 
just  one  chance  for  me.  If  I  can  catch  an  early 
train  I  can  get  home,  perhaps,  before  they  are 
up.  I  have  my  latch-key,  and  I'll  say  that  I 
left  Harvey  to  see  Carrie  home,  and  came  back 
early  from  the  hill  with  you,  and  let  myself  in 
and  went  right  upstairs  to  bed.  There's  just 
that  chance — that  one  chance — that  no  one  sat 
up  for  me  at  home,  and  that  I  haven't  been 
missed.  Quick,  where 's  the  man  ?  Maybe  he 
has  a  horse  and  sleigh,  and  can  take  me  over." 

"  Sue,"  began  Brainard,  again  approaching 
her. 

"  No,  no,"  she  broke  in  vehemently.  "  You 
can't  turn  me— you  can't  talk  me  out  of  it. 
You  know  that  I'm  right.  Don't  you  ?  "  she 
asked,  looking  at  him  searchingly. 

"  And  so  our  little  melodrama  ends  in  a 
farce,"  he  said,  evading  a  direct  reply  to  her 
appeal.  "  It's  always  so." 

"  It  is  better  so,"  she  answered. 

"  You  can't  expect  me  to  say  yes  to  that." 

At  this  moment  the  charcoal-burner  entered. 
He  had  been  unable  to  find  the  sled,  and  ex 
plained  that  it  had  probably  sunk  to  the  bot 
tom  of  the  pond  owing  to  the  weight  of  the 
iron  on  the  runners.  . 

"  Have  you  got  a  horse  and  sleigh  ? ''  inquired 
Miss  Chantry  hurriedly.  "  Could  you  take  me 
over  to  the  depot  at  Reddingham  in  time  to 


60        A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

catch  the  first  train  west  ?  Do  you  know  what 
time  it  goes  ?  " 

"  Why,  cert,  lady,"  answered  the  man  slowly  ; 
"  I've  got  a  horse  and  cutter,  and  kin  hitch  up 
and  take  you  there  easy.  It  ain't  but  three 
miles,  and  the  train  leaves  at  4.55." 

"  It  will  get  you  to  Burlington  before  half- 
past  five,"  added  Brainard. 

"  But  ain't  you  goin'  to  have  some  breakfast 
with  me  'fore  you  go,  ma'am — or  lea'stvvise  a 
cup  of  coffee  to  warm  you  up  ?  I  ain't  no 
slouch  at  making  coffee." 

"  No,  no,"  she  said  beseechingly.  "  Please 
— please  take  me  at  once,  and  don't  let  me  miss 
the  train." 

"All  right,  ma'am,"  he  responded  good- 
naturedly,  and  taking  clown  a  lantern,  went  out 
side,  where  they  heard  him  presently  opening 
the  stable  door  and  getting  out  the  horse. 

"  I  shall  have  to  ask  a  favor  of  you,  Mr. 
Brainard,"  she  said,  blushing  slightly.  "I 
haven't  my  purse  with  me — the  ticket — the 
man — 

"  Why,  am  I  not  going  with  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"No,  no;  it  won't  do  for  us  to  be  seen  to 
gether  at  the  station.  You  must  stay  here,  and 
go  back  later." 

"  But  I  don't  like  to  let  you  go  alone." 

"  It  is  perfectly  safe,"  she  answered  ;  and  he 
handed  her  his  purse  and  was  silent. 

"What,  ain't  the  gentleman  going  too?" 
inquired  Brainard's  deliverer,  as  Miss  Chantry 
was  helped  into  the  cutter  and  bade  her  cava- 


A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT' S  DREAM.        6 1 

Her  good-by.  "There's  lots  of  room  for 
three." 

"  No,  cap,  I'm  going  to  stay  here  till  my 
clothes  get  dry,  and  keep  house  for  you  till  you 
get  back." 

"Wai,  I'll  be  gosh  darned!"  remarked  the 
puzzled  driver,  as  he  gathered  up  the  reins. 
"  Say,  mister,  when  you  git  sleepy  you  kin  turn 
in  in  the  bed.  I've  got  a  shake  down  for  myself, 
and  you'll  find  a  pipe  and  tobacco  on  the  shelf 
and  a  jug  of  whisky  in  the  locker,  near  the 
bed." 

"  Mind  you  catch  the  train,"  Brainard  called 
after  him. 

"You  bet,"  came  back  on  the  wind,  and 
horse  and  sleigh  disappeared  under  the  setting 
moon, 

Brainard  slept  profoundly,  and  it  was  deep 
in  the  day  when  he  awoke.  At  first  he  lay  still 
and  stared  at  the  wall.  He  could  not  remember 
where  he  was,  but  an  unaccountable  feeling  of 
relief  possessed  him.  His  eyes  were  fastened 
idly  upon  an  object  on  the  wall  which  he  could 
not  at  once  identify.  It  was  nothing  but  a  big 
knot  in  the  rough  planking  of  the  cabin,  through 
which  the  sun  streamed,  making  a  kernel  or 
focus  of  light ;  but  it  looked  like  a  great  rose  or 
ruby,  glowing  with  vivid  scarlets  and  crimsons, 
and  burning  with  an  intensity  which  flooded  his 
eyes  and  his  whole  being  with  radiance,  and 
seemed  an  emblem  of  some  inward  happiness. 
Slowly  the  twilight  between  sleep  and  waking 


62        A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

cleared  into  full  consciousness,  and  the  memory 
of  the  night's  adventures  came  back  to  him. 
But  still  he  lay  in  a  kind  of  blissful  trance, 
thinking  of  the  chasm  in  his  life  from  the  brink 
of  which  his  feet  had  gone  back  ;  of  the  bonds 
and  the  duties  and  the  habits  that  had  seemed, 
in  the  witching  light  of  the  moon,  a  load  to  be 
lightly  cast  off  forever,  but  which  now,  in  the 
healthy  sunshine  of  the  new  day,  became  in 
finitely  sweet  and  sacred.  He  heard  the  drip, 
drip  of  thawing  snow  from  the  eaves.  He 
heard  the  charcoal-burner  whistling  outside, 
and  presently  the  steady  blows  of  his  ax. 

After  a  while  he  rose  and,  finding  his  dry 
clothes  by  the  stove,  dressed  and  went  out 
doors.  His  host  was  chopping  down  a  tree, 
one  of  the  last  of  an  army  whose  stumps  pro 
jected  here  and  there  from  the  snow,  and  whose 
trunks  had  been  converted  into  charcoal. 

"  Hello,  colonel,"  he  called  out,  suspending 
his  labor,  "  you  ain't  up,  be  you  ?  I  swanny  but 
you  have  slept  solid.  Guess  you  was  out  late 
last  night,  wasn't  you  ?  I  put  some  breakfast 
by  for  you  to  keep  hot,  but,  gosh  !  it  must  be  all 
dried  up  by  this  time." 

"Thank  you,  I'll  go  in  and  help  myself  to  a 
bite.  Did  you  make  the  train  ?  " 

"  Wai,  we  did,  and  ten  minutes  to  spare  "- 
and  he  resumed  his  work. 

Brainard's  sense  took  note  of  the  odor  of  fresh 
chips  with  a  keen  pleasure.  The  sun,  many 
hours  high,  poured  a  dazzling  light  over  the 
white,  undulating  country.  .A  few  chippy-birds 


A  MIDWINTER  NIGHT'S  DREAM.        63 

were  hopping  around  the  doorstep  and  their 
cheeping  made  music  in  his  heart,  as  did  the 
tinkling  sound  of  little  rills  of  snow-water  dis 
solved  in  the  thaw  and  stealing  off  downhill 
under  the  crust.  The  broad,  commonplace  face 
of  day  cheered  him  with  a  conviction  of  the 
good  health  of  the  world,  and  a  thankfulness 
that  the  place  in  that  world  which  he  had  come 
so  near  forfeiting  was  still  kept  open  to  him. 

At  Reddingham  Station  and  on  the  train  he 
was  lucky  enough  to  meet  no  acquaintances. 
But  as  he  was  making  his  way  from  the  depot 
at  Burlington  to  the  main  street,  he  encountered 
Wilmot,  who  greeted  him  with  : 

"  Well,  well !  What  became  of  you  and  Sue 
last  night  ?  We  looked  for  you  all  over  the 
hill  and  couldn't  find  even  a  mitten  of  you." 

"  Why,  you  don't  expect  people  to  coast  all 
night,  do  you  ?  Miss  Chantry  got  cold  and 
tired,  and  wanted  to  go  home." 

4<  Did  she  seem  to  be  a  trifle  miffed,  too  ?  " 
asked  Wilmot,  with  a  slight  shade  of  anxiety. 

"  Why,  no.  What  should  she  be  miffed 
about?  " 

"  Well,  what  should  Miss  Gillespie  be  miffed 
about?  All  the  same,  she  was.  She  wanted  \ 
to  go  home,  and  when  I  looked  around  for 
you,  and  you  were  gone,  and  I  .  told  her  I 
guessed  she'd  have  to  accept  the  escort  of 
yours  truly,  she  tossed  her  head  and  said, 
you  and  Sue  appeared  to  like  the  all-hands- 
change-partners  figure  so  well  that  you  seemed 
inclined  to  keep  it  up  for  the  rest  of  the  dance. " 


64       A  MIDWINTER  NIGHTS  DREAM. 

"  Oh,  no  ! "  said  Brainard,  with  an  uneasy 
laugh.  "  It  answered  well  enough  for  an 
evening,  but  it  wouldn't  do  for  good." 

"  Thank  you.  Same  here.  But  girls  don't 
take  a  joke  worth  a  cent,  and  I  think  I'll  go 
around  to  Sue's  and  make  my  peace.  She 
might  have  been  miffed  and  you  not  seen  it. 
Men  are  so  damned  obtuse,  you  know." 

Miss  Chantry  was  punctual  at  breakfast  that 
morning,  and  was  rallied  by  the  family  on  her 
paleness. 

"Coasting  doesn't  agree  with  everyone/' 
said  her  brother  Gilbert ;  "  makes  some  peo 
ple  sea-sick." 

"You  must  have  got  home  very  late,"  said 
her  mother.  "  I  didn't  hear  you  come  in." 

"On  the  contrary,"  she  asserted,  "it  was 
very  early." 

"Well,"  said  her  father,  from  the  window, 
where  he  stood  in  his  slippers,  newspaper  in 
hand,  and  regarded  the  street,  "  it's  the  last  of 
the  coasting,  for  the  present.  The  January 
thaw  has  set  in  and  the  wind  is  dead  south." 


III. 

A  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


A  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

]R.  WILLIAM  MERRIMAN,  JR.,  de 
scribed  by  his  friends  as  a  rising  young 
lawyer,  came  uptown  one  evening  in 
December  about   an   hour  later  than 
usual.     It  was  his  habit  to  stop  somewhere  on 
the  way  up  and  dine  in  a  leisurely  way,  and  then 
to  get  to  his  room  at  half-past  seven  or  there 
abouts.     On  this  particular  evening,  however, 
he  had  lingered  over  his  coffee  and  newspaper, 
and  now,  as  he  reached  the  door  of  his  apart 
ment,  he  was  made  aware  of  the  lateness  of  the 
hour  by   the   roar   of   the   grate   inside.     The 
chambermaid  had  been  instructed  to  leave  the 
blower  up  when  she  kindled  the  fire,  by  which 
means  the  reluctant  draught  was  coaxed  into 
efficiency  just   at   the   time   of   his   customary 
arrival.     It  had  now  an  hour's  extra  headway, 
but  the  faithful  domestic,  with  the  unreasoning 
obedience  of  a  Casabianca,  stuck  to  the  letter  of 
her  instructions.     Accordingly,  when  Merriman 
entered  the  room  he  found  things  booming.     A 
loud  smell  of  varnish  went  up  from  the  legs  of 
the  chairs,  a  crimson  glare  from  the  bottom  of 
the  grate  smote  upon  the  carpet,  and  a  fiery 
crack  defined  the  outline  of  the  dull  red  blower. 


6  A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

This  last  being  taken  down,  the  walls  and  ceil 
ing  bloomed  like  a  rose  ;  and  while  the  glow 
ing  iron  snapped  and  cracked,  as  it  slowly 
cooled,  Merriman  got  himself  into  dressing 
gown  and  slippers,  lighted  a  big  pipe,  settled 
himself  in  his  easy-chair  and,  by  the  steady 
firelight,  proceeded  to  read  a  brace  of  letters 
which  he  had  found  on  his  mantel.  The  first  of 
these  ran  as  follows : 

BLANKSKILL-ON-HlJDSON, 

December  18,  187-. 
DEAR  MR.  MERRIMAN  : 

Mamma  is  ill  with  a  cold,  so  I  am  doing-  her  cor 
respondence.  We  came  up  to  Blankskill  very  un 
expectedly,  but  now  that  we  have  opened  the  house 
we  mean  to  spend  Christmas  here,  and  we  have  hit 
on  quite  a  bright  idea.  We  are  going  to  ask  about 
a  hundred  people  up  for  the  evening  of  Christmas 
Day  and  have  that  little  comedy  over  again  which 
had  such  a  success  at  the  charity  entertainment — 
"  If  She  be  not  Fair  for  Me," — you  know.  We  shall 
expect  you  to  take  the  same  part  you  had  before. 
The  actors  ought  to  be  here  by  the  2$d  to  re 
hearse,  if  possible.  So  you  must  R.  S.  V.  P.  We 
shall  keep  a  few  choice  spirits  through  the  holi 
days,  and  of  course  mamma  says  you  are  to  con 
sider  yourself  included  in  that  list.  There  will  be 
sleighing,  and,  I  hope,  ice  boating,  if  the  river  only 
keeps  frozen.  So  you  must  make  arrangements 
to  leave  your  anxious  clients  for  a  few  days.  We 
will  let  you  go  back  in  time  for  New  Year's 
calls. 

Very  truly, 

HARRIET  VAN  SHUYSTER. 


A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  69 

The  other  letter  bore  the  postmark  of  a  small 
hill-town  in  Berkshire,  Mass.,  and  these  were 
its  contents,  to  wit : 

CHUCKATUCK,  December  18,  187-. 
MY  DEAR  COUNSELOR  : 

Can't  you  get  off  at  Christmas  for  a  week  up  here  ? 
We  are  alone,  as  usual,  my  sister  and  myself,  and 
can't  offer  you  anything  brilliant  in  the  way  of  enter 
tainment.  You  used  to  like  to  take  long  walks  in 
college  and  then  come  home  and  "  chin"  over  a 
wood  fire.  We  can  do  that  here  to  satiety.  We 
can  take  you  sleighing  too,  if  the  snow  doesn't  drift 
off  the  roads.  Then  you  needn't  go  to  church  and 
hear  me  preach  if  you  don't  want  to.  I  will  lend 
you  the  MS.  of  my  sermon,  which  will  do  just  as 
well.  Say  you  will  come. 

Yours  faithfully, 

CHARLES  HOPKINSON. 

P.  S. — You  take  the  Housatonic  Railroad  at 
Bridgeport  and  stage  for  Chuckatuck  at  Whistle- 
ville.  Fishing  through  the  ice  on  the  pond. 

The  warmth  of  the  room  had  a  relaxing 
effect  on  the  will,  and  the  recipient  of  these 
invitations  sat  a  long  time  in  a  luxury  of  in 
decision.  A  complacent  smile  stole  now  and 
then  across  his  face,  and  his  thoughts  were 
evidently  as  rosy  as  the  clouds  that  curled 
upward  from  his  meerschaum. 

Presently  footsteps  came  -along  the  hall,  fol 
lowed  by  a  smart  rap  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  called  out  Merriman  lazily,  not 
troubling  himself  to  look  around. 


7®  A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  tall,  Mephistophelian- 
looking  man,  with  a  sallow  face  and  black 
mustache,  stepped  into  the  room.  "  For  God's 
sake  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  do  you  keep  a  Turkish 
bath  here  ?  " 

"Hallo,  Willett;  that  you?  Come  in. 
Why  haven't  you  been  in  before  ?  " 

"  In  before  !  Who  do  you  think  is  coming 
into  such  a  hell  on  earth  ?  Open  a  window, 
quick." 

"  Why,  of  course,"  laughed  Merriman.  "  I 
was  thinking  of  it,  but  I  couldn't  get  up  the 
energy.  Just  open  that  one  in  the  alcove,  and 
then  come  and  sit  down." 

Willett  flung  up  a  window,  and  then,  ap 
proaching  the  mantel,  said,  "  Give  me  a  pipe. 
I've  got  time  for  just  one  smoke." 

"You're  always  in  a  hurry,"  grumbled  his 
friend.  "Sans  aucune  affaire  et  tonjours 
ajfairt — that's  you.  If  you  want  a  big-Injun 
smoke  there's  old  Popocatepetl  on  the  table. 
If  you  want  a  little  smoke  for  a  cent  you'd 
better  take  Spitfire  there  on  the  shelf." 

Willett  picked  up  a  pipe  and  began  filling  it 
from  a  large  jar  representing  the  face  of  the 
sleeping  Holofernes.  "  Which  it  is  limited," 
he  said,  looking  around  the  small  room  ;  but 
added  approvingly,  "which  it  is  a  bijou. 

"  It  is  kind  of  decorative.  But  haven't  you 
been  here  since  I  took  these  quarters  ?" 

"  Never.  You  used  to  be  on  the  other  side 
of  the  shebang,  one  flight  up,  last  time  I  was 
here." 


A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  71 

"  Well,  how  are  you,  anyway  ?  To-night 
you  co\\\egerade  wie  geivunsckt :  I  want  your 
professional  advice.  Sit  down,  and  I'll  put  the 
case.  Have  some  whisky  first  ?  " 

"  I  will  always  have  some  whisky — if  properly 
approached." 

"  Then  read  those  two  letters  while  I  make  a 
tod,  and  tell  me  what  to  do." 

Willett  took  the  letters  and  read  them  gravely 
through.  He  frowned  a  little  and  drew  down 
his  heavy  eyebrows,  sucking  silently  at  his  pipe, 
as  he  read. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Merriman  at  length.  "  What 
does  the  calumet  say  to  my  brother  the  saga 
more  ?  Here,  take  your  firewater  and  give  us 
your  talk." 

"  Which  do  you  want  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  can't  make  up  my  mind." 

"Toss  up  a  cent." 

:<  At  least,  I  know  what  I  want  to  do,  but  I 
don't  know  what  I  ought  to  do." 

"  In  that  case  do  the  one  you  want  to  do." 

"  Willett,  you  have  no  Moral  Earnestness.  I 
have  long  suspected  it :  now  I  know  it." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have,  lots  of  M.  E.;  but  where 
does  it  come  in  here  ?  " 

"  Die  Sac/ie  ist  ndmlich  die :  Hopkinson  is 
always  asking  me  up  there,  and  I've  never  been. 
I  don't  want  him  to  think  that  I'm  cutting  him. 
Hopkinson  is  a  very  good  fellow,  if  he  is  a 
parson,  and  we  were  very  thick  in  college — 
chummed  together  for  a  year,  in  fact.  I'm  un 
der  considerable  obligations  to  him  in  one  way 


72  A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

and  another.  I  ought  to  go.  I  really  ought." 
Merriman  repeated  this  with  the  futile  emphasis 
of  irresolute  persons  when  they  are  trying  to 
bully  themselves  into  a  determination.  As  he 
sat  in  the  light  of  the  fire,  his  face  offered  a 
strong  contrast  to  the  swarthy,  sardonic  coun 
tenance  of  his  friend,  its  length  of  jaw  and  high 
cheek  bones.  Merrirnan's  face,  with  its  deli 
cately  cut  features,  pale  complexion,  and  straw- 
colored  side  whiskers,  expressed  lively  intelli 
gence  combined  with  a  certain  weakness.  "  I 
know  it  will  be  a  beastly  bore,"  he  continued : 
"  muffin-worries,  and  calls  from  parishioners; 
introduced  to  the  senior  deacon  and  the  village 
belle — with  ringlets — and  the  man  who  keeps 
the  academy,  probably  a  graduate  of  Podunk 
University.  And  then  the  sister  is  doubtless 
the  worst  sort  of  old  frump.  The  fact  is,  I  am 
sorry  for  Hopkinson.  He  has  the  making  of  a 
man  in  him,  but  he  is  stuck  off  there  on  a 
huckleberry  hill  with  a  salary  of  twelve  hundred 
dollars,  and  he's  getting  into  the  narrowest  kind 
of  rut.  I  suppose  he  reads  nothing  but  the 
Missionary  Herald  and  that  sort  of  thing. 
Last  time  I  saw  him  he  looked  all  gone  to  seed." 
Merriman  paused  to  contemplate  the  mental 
image  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hopkinson,  and  sipped 
meditatively  at  his  glass. 

"The  Van  Shuysters  are  swellness ?"  sug 
gested  Willett. 

"  Rather  swell — rather  swell,"  answered 
Merriman  complacently.  "  I  wish  they  wouldn't 
put  a  crest  on  their  note-paper ;  and  '  Blankskill- 


A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  73 

on-Huclson  '  is  too  much  agony.  But  women 
will  do  such  things." 

"  And  the  Miss  V.,  I  suppose,  is  prettier  than 
a  spotted  purp  ?  " 

"  Well,  she's  not  bad.  But  you've  seen  her, 
haven't  you  ?  " 

"No,  I  think  not.  Oh,  you'd  better  take 
them  up  and  have  a  good  time  of  it.  If  you  go 
to  Hopkinson's,  now,  you'll  get  nothing  but 
grocery  cider  with  your  Christmas  dinner,  and 
have  to  go  out  on  '  the  stoop  '  for  a  smoke. 
Whereas  if  you  do  the  other  party,  you  can 
'  travel  with  great  drinking,  deliciously  money 
spend,' like  your  French  friend — wasn't  it? — 
who  wrote  you  that  letter  from  Montreal." 

"  Yes,"  said  Hopkinson,  laughing  at  the  recol 
lection  :  "  '  deliciously  money  spend ' — that  was 
the  phrase." 

"  Then  on  Sunday  you'll  have  to  hear — out  of 
common  politeness — two  sermons  at  least  from 
your  host ;  whereas  at  Blankskill-on-Hudson,  I 
infer,  they  knock  spots  out  of  the  Christian 
Sabbath." 

"  Willett,  I  fear  you  are  little  better  than  one 
of  the  wicked." 

Willett  eyed  him  severely  for  a  moment,  and 
then  replied,  "  Far  be  it  from  me  to  speak 
slightingly  of  your  religious  opportunities.  I 
am  myself — since  my  engagement — a  polished 
corner  of  the  temple.  Go,  by  all  means.  Go 
up,  Baldhead.  Yes,  go  up  to— Hardscrabble, 
was  the  name  ? — and  my  blessing  go  with 
you." 


74  A    COMEDY   OF  ERRORS. 

"But  you  haven't  told  me  what  excuse  to 
give  Hopkinson." 

"Tell  him  you  had  accepted  the  other  bid 
before  you  got  his." 

The  two  young  men  regarded  each  other 
steadfastly  and  then  burst  into  a  simultaneous 
explosion  of  laughter. 

"  You  are  a  bad  man — a  bold,  bad  man," 
said  Merriman.  "  Have  another  tod,  and  fill 
up  your  pipe." 

"  No ;  I  must  be  going,"  replied  Willett, 
looking  at  his  watch.  He  rose  and  wandered 
round  the  room,  examining  the  various  articles 
of  "  bigotry  and  virtue,"  and  then,  with  an 
abrupt  "  Good-night,"  took  his  departure. 

Coming  in  like  the  monitions  of  the  worldly 
voice  in  "  Dipsychus,"  Willett's  counsel  had 
fixed  for  a  moment  the  vacillating  impulses  in 
Merriman's  mind ;  and,  while  the  impression 
was  fresh,  he  lighted  the  gas  and  dashed  off 
answers  to  his  two  invitations,  sealed  and  ad 
dressed  them,  and  sent  out  for  a  messenger 
boy  to  post  them. 

Let  us  follow  them  to  their  destinations. 

Mrs.  Van  Shuyster  and  her  daughter  were 
sitting  by  an  open  fire  in  the  library  of  their 
country  house  at  Blankskill-on-Hudson.  The 
wind  shook  the  French  windows,  which  opened 
on  a  wide  piazza.  Thence  the  eye  ranged 
over  a  lawn  glittering  with  crusted  snow,  over 
clumps  of  Scotch  firs  weighed  clown  with  piles 
of  feathery  white,  over  the  ice-bound  river  far 
below  and  the  dreary  opposite  hills.  The  drive- 


A    CO  AT  ED  Y  OF  ERRORS.  75 

way  which  wound  across  the  lawn  was  well 
broken  with  sleigh  tracks,  but  just  at  present 
no  living  thing  was  in  sight  except  a  few  men 
stirring  about  the  big  ice-houses  on  the  other 
bank.  The  elder  of  the  two  ladies  was  a 
comely  matron,  with  the  long  Dutch  nose  and 
heavy  Knickerbocker  chin.  The  same  features 
were  repeated  in  Miss  Van  Shuyster,  but  with 
the  softer  emphasis  of  youth.  She  had,  too, 
her  mother's  fresh  complexion  and  tendency 
to  stoutness.  Mrs.  Van  Shuyster  was  busy 
over  some  mysterious  piece  of  needlework ; 
her  daughter  was  listlessly  turning  over  the 
pages  of  a  novel.  Now  and  then  the  latter 
yawned  and  looked  dreamily  out  upon  the 
winter  landscape.  A  young-lady  cousin  lay 
asleep  on  the  sofa,  and  her  breathing  was 
more  than  audible. 

"  How  that  child  does  sleep  !  "  said  Mrs.  Van 
Shuyster  softly. 

"  How  that  child  does  snore !  "  rejoined  her 
daughter. 

"  I'm  afraid  she  has  taken  a  bad  cold." 

"  Of  course  she  has — going  out  last  evening 
without  the  ghost  of  an  overshoe.  She's  too 
giddy  for  any  use." 

"  Isn't  it  almost  time  for  the  mail  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Van  Shuyster  after  a  long  silence. 

"  Yes,  it  is — after  time  ;  and  there's  John 
now." 

And  in  fact  the  jingle  of  sleigh-bells  was 
heard,  and  a  cutter  came  up  the  drive.  The  elder 
lady  went  placidly  on  with  her  work,  but  the 


7  6  A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

younger  threw  down  her  book  and  stepped  to  the 
window.  The  slight  noise  aroused  the  sleeper, 
who  sat  up  under  her  rug  and  rubbed  her  eyes. 
"  Have  I  been  asleep  ?  "  she  asked. 

Both  ladies  laughed,  and  Mrs.  Van  Shuyster 
answered,  "  Well,  you  sounded  like  it." 

"  Oh,  did  I  snore  —  did  I  snore  ?  How 
horrid  !  Why  didn't  you  wake  me  up  ?  " 

"  Call  it  '  stertorous  breathing,'  Charlie,"  said 
Miss  Van  Shuyster  soothingly. 

"  Call  it  '  fiddlesticks  ' !  You'd  have  let  me 
do  it  all  the  same  if  the  room  had  been  full  of 
men."  She  approached  the  mirror  over  the 
mantel  and  gazed  ruefully  at  her  reflection. 
"  What  a  nose  I've  got  on  me  !  "  she  continued. 
"  It's  a  regular  purple.  I  know  I  shall  be  a 
perfect  fright  next  Tuesday.  I'm  mad  enough 
to  go  upstairs  and  bite  the  bureau." 

"  Go  up,  instead,  and  put  some  cold  cream  on 
your  nose,"  suggested  her  cousin. 

"  It  will  go  down  before  Tuesday,"  said  her 
aunt,  inspecting  the  offending  member  with  the 
air  of  a  connoisseur. 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  It  won't  if  you  fuss  with  it,"  said  Miss  Van 
Shuyster  brutally.  "  Put  some  cream  on  it,  and 
let  it  alone." 

At  this  point  the  door  opened,  and  a  servant 
brought  in  some  letters,  which  she  handed  to 
Miss  Van  Shuyster,  who  tore  them  open  eagerly, 
one  after  another,  and  announced  the  contents  : 
"  This  one  is  from  the  Hoffman  Duyks ;  they 
are  all  coming  ;  that's  good.  H'm  !  Mr,  Lam- 


A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  77 

pick  sends  regrets  ;  he  has  to  go  to  Washing 
ton.  Well,  somebody  else  will  have  to  take 
Alonzo.  Fortunately  the  part  is  short ;  but 
then  his  mustache  is  a  great  loss.  Here's  a 
note  from  Mrs.  Madison  May.  He  is  coming, 
but  she  can't.  Well,  no  one  wants  her.  Oh, 
here  is  one  from  Mr.  Merriman.  It  is  to  you, 
mamma:  will  you  read  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,  my  dear.  I  suppose  they  are  all 
to  me,  aren't  they  ?  " 

"  Oh,  is  Mr.  Merriman  coming  ?  "  broke  in 
the  impetuous  Charlie.  "  I  think  he  is  just 
too  lovely  !  Don't  tell  me  that  he  isn't  coming  ! 
It  would  darken  all  my  young  life."  She 
clasped  her  hands  with  a  tragic  gesture  and 
lifted  her  eyes  appealingly  to  her  cousin,  who 
colored  slightly  under  her  gaze. 

Miss  Charlotte  Middlesex — known  to  her 
intimates,  who  were  numerous,  as  "  Charlie" — 
was  a  rapid  brunette,  with  a  baby  face  and 
large,  innocent  eyes.  She  had  also  a  low,  coo 
ing  voice;  and  under  cover  of  all  these  advan 
tages  she  managed  to  say  and  do  the  riskiest 
things  with  an  air  of  confiding  simplicity. 

"There  must  be  some  mistake:  I  don't  un 
derstand,"  began  Miss  Van  Shuyster,  glancing 
over  the  letter.  "  The  envelope  is  addressed 
to  mamma,  but  the  letter  begins,  'Dear 
Charlie.' " 

"  Why,  it  must  be  for  me  !  "  exclaimed  Miss 
Middlesex. 

"  Do  be  still,  you  ridiculous  girl  !  Mamma, 
see  if  you  can  make  it  out." 


7§  A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Mrs.  Van  Shuyster  took  the  letter  and  read 
it  out,  as  follows  : 

DEAR  CHARLIE  : 

It  would  give  me  the  greatest  pleasure  to  take  up 
your  offer  for  the  holidays,  but  I  have  just  written 
accepting  a  bid  to  make  one  at  a  Christmas  party 
at  Mrs.  Van  Shuyster's,  up  the  North  River.  I'm 
very  sorry,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  Perhaps  I  can 
run  up  and  see  you  some  time  before  long  and  take 
in  the  walks  and  the  fishing  through  the  ice.  Don't 
fail  to  let  me  know  when  you  come  down  to  New 
York.  Please  give  my  respects  to  your  sister,  and 
believe  me 

Yours  faithfully, 

WILLIAM  MERRIMAN. 

"  Oh,  now  I  see  it  all,"  said  Miss  Van  Shuys 
ter.  "  He  was  writing  to  us  and  to  some 
other  people,  and  he  has  exchanged  envelopes. 
What  a  thing  for  a  man  to  do  !  And  he  always 
laughing  at  us  for  being  Mrs  Nicklebys  and 
sending  bundles  by  kindness  of  Mr.  So-and-So, 
instead  of  by  express,  and  for  being  afraid  to 
write  on  postal  cards  for  fear  the  post-office 
men  would  read  it.  Oh,  we'll  never  let  him 
hear  the  last  of  it.  Don't  lose  that  letter, 
mother,  for  the  world.  We'll  learn  it  by  heart 
and  quote  it  to  him.  We'll  make  his  life  per 
fectly  miserable." 

"  Hattie  !  "  said  her  mother  warningly.  And 
then,  looking  at  the  letter  again,  "  It  seems  that 
we  may  expect  him,  at  any  rate :  he  says  as 
much  to  his  correspondent  here.  Put  the  letter 


A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  79 

in  my  desk,  dear,  and  I  will  give  it  to  him  when 
he  comes.  It  would  hardly  be  worth  while  to 
send  it  back,  I  suppose.  He  will  start  before  it 
can  reach  New  York." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  who  got  the  other  letter,  and 
what  was  in  it,"  murmured  Miss  Middlesex. 
"  It  might  be  something  awfully  compromising. 
Wouldn't  it  be  fun  if  it  was  ? — like  things  in 
Shakspere,  you  know." 

"  Compromising  to  whom  ?  "  demanded  her 
cousin  sharply. 

"  Oh,  not  to  you,  clear,  not  to  you,  of  course  ; 
but  maybe  to  '  Dear  Charlie,'  whoever  he  is. 
Charlie — Charlie !  It's  quite  a  coincidence, 
isn't  it?" 

"  I  don't  see  any  coincidence  about  it,"  an 
swered  Miss  Van  Shuyster. 

Meanwhile  the  other  letter  had  reached  port. 

The  postmaster — who  was  likewise  the  store 
keeper — at  Chuckatuck  had  pigeonholed  the 
last  newspaper  of  the  afternoon  mail.  The  few 
people  in  waiting  had  taken  their  departure, 
but  the  ring  of  village  loafers  still  hugged  the 
stove,  on  whose  red-hot  sides  the  sizzle  of  the 
frying  tobacco-juice  acted  as  a  gentle  stimulant 
to  conversation.  The  talk  was  suspended 
for  a  few  minutes  by  the  entrance  of  a  young 
lady  wrapped  in  a  hooded  cloak  with  scarlet 
lining,  who  brought  in  with  her  a  breath  of  cold 
air.  The  gossips  eyed  her  with  the  respectful 
and  furtive  curiosity  due  to  the  minister's  sister, 
while  she  called  for  her  mail,  received  a  single 
letter,  and  went  quickly  out  again.  Inside,  the 


8o  A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

stream  of  debate  resumed  its  deliberate  course. 
Outside,  the  wind  was  sharp  and  the  twilight 
gathering.  As  the  minister's  sister  turned  into 
the  slender  path  trodden  in  the  snow,  which  led 
down  through  the  pasture,  across  the  frozen 
brook,  and  up  the  hill  to  the  parsonage,  she 
noticed  that  the  lamp  had  already  been  lighted 
in  the  study  and  was  sending  its  glimmer 
through  the  network  of  bare  orchard  boughs. 
But  her  impatience  to  see  the  inside  of  the  letter 
was  such  that  she  opened  it  as  she  walked 
along,  and  spelled  out  its  contents  by  the  fad 
ing  light.  The  envelope  was  directed  to  the 
Rev.  Charles  Hopkinson,  though  in  opening  it 
she  was  not  committing  one  of  those  small 
feminine  breaches  of  honor  over  which  the  cyn 
ical  reader  might  naturally  "  chortle."  The 
Rev.  Charles,  in  fact,  had  gone  off  for  a  day  or 
two  to  a  "  convocation  " — a  mysterious  period 
ical  ceremony  whose  recurrences  formed  the 
only  dissipations  of  his  quiet  life.  He  had 
commissioned  his  sister  to  open  all  his  letters 
in  his  absence.  Some  of  them  might  need  im 
mediate  attention.  In  particular,  he  was  ex 
pecting  an  answer  to  his  invitation  to  Merriman. 
If  the  latter  was  coming,  there  were  certain 
household  preparations  to  be  made,  of  which 
Miss  Hopkinson  should  have  timely  warning. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  he  was  not  coming,  she 
was  free  to  accept  an  invitation  to  spend  Christ 
mas  with  some  friends  at  a  distance.  She  had 
resigned  herself  to  the  self-denial  of  staying  at 
home  to  help  entertain  her  brother's  old  college 


A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  8 1 

chum,  and  her  resignation  had  been  made 
easier,  perhaps,  by  a  certain  flutter  of  expecta 
tion  natural  to  a  youthful  spinster  about  to  be 
confronted  with  a  rising  young  lawyer  from  New 
York,  whose  fascinating  qualities  her  brother 
was  never  weary  of  describing.  Only  a  few 
evenings  ago,  as  they  sat  before  the  study  fire, 
Hopkinson  had  said,  breaking  out  from  a  long 
reverie,  "  Bill  Merriman  is  one  of  the  few  fellows 
that  I  know  who  haven't  changed  for  the  worse 
since  leaving  college.  When  I  go  to  the  city 
and  hunt  up  my  old  classmates  I  come  back 
feeling  melancholy.  They  seem  to  me  to  have 
grown  coarse,  and  I  probably  seem  to  them  to 
have  grown  narrow.  They  act  as  if  they  were 
glad  to  see  me,  and  are  very  kind,  and  all  that, 
but  I  can  tell  from  their  talk  that  their  ideals 
have  become  lower.  They've  lost  their  old  en 
thusiasms;  they're  all  for  money — money.  I've 
no  doubt  they  think  me  a  stick.  Now  Merri 
man  has  retained  a  kind  of  fine  boyishness  :  he 
is  just  the  same  old  chap,  and  it  makes  me  feel 
younger  to  see  him."  Miss  Hopkinson  made 
no  reply  to  this  outburst,  and  presently  he  went 
on  :  "  I'm  afraid,  though,  from  what  he  told  me 
the  last  time  I  saw  him,  that  he  is  going  too 
much  into  society.  A  young  lawyer  had  better 
stick  to  his  books  pretty  closely  at  first." 

"  But  think  how  society  would  suffer,"  sug 
gested  his  sister. 

"  Oh,  come,  now,  don't  be  ironical.  I  see 
you  are  bound  to  nurse  a  prejudice  against 
Merriman." 


82  A    COMEDY  OF  ERROXS. 

"  Well,  if  he  is  such  a  swell  as  you  say,  what 
are  we  going  to  do  to  entertain  him  up  here  ? 
Shall  we  take  him  to  the  meeting  of  the  Dorcas 
Society,  or  show  him  the  public  buildings? 
There's  the  jail,  now,  and  the  bank.  Or  he 
might  go  to  the  store  and  be  weighed." 

"Oh,  you  don't  know  Merriman ;  he  likes 
this  sort  of  thing  just  as  much  as  you  or  I." 

"  What  sort  of  thing  ?  " 

"Well — nature,  for  instance:  walks,  etc. 
He  will  be  interested  in  your  collection  of 
ferns." 

14  How  kind  of  him  !  " 

"  And  sitting  by  the  fire  this  way.  We  used 
to  have  many  an  owl  over  the  fire  Saturday 
nights  in  old  South  Middle.  And  that  reminds 
me :  I  must  get  that  box  of  hickory  nuts  down 
from  the  garret.  I  hope  they  haven't  turned 
rancid.  And  there's  some  of  the  canned  cider 
left  that  Deacon  Appleseed  sent  in  at  the  dona 
tion  party.  But,  Sarah  dear,  I've  told  you  a 
dozen  times  that  you  must  not  give  up  your 
visit  on  our  account.  Emma  and  I  can  run  the 
house  well  enough  and  take  care  of  him  with 
out  you." 

Sarah's  answer  to  this  was  to  rise  and  come 
behind  her  brother's  chair.  She  took  hold  of 
both  his  ears,  and,  bending  over,  kissed  him 
on  the  forehead.  "  You  dear  old  thing  !  "  she 
said.  "  You  and  Emma  run  the  house !  I 
think  I  see  you  !  What  would  you  get  to  eat  ? 
No  ;  if  he  is  coming  I  shall  stay,  though  I  know 
I  shan't  like  him." 


A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  8  3 

"  Yes,  you  will,"  asserted  her  brother 
warmly  :  "  he  always  makes  himself  agreeable 
to  women.  The  only  thing  about  him  that 
you  may  not  like  at  first  is  his — not  exactly 
frivolity;  Merriman  is  not  a  frivolous  man  at 
bottom— but  I  am  afraid  he  is  getting  some 
worldly  notions  in  New  York.  I  mean  to  have 
a  serious  talk  with  him,  if  I  get  a  chance." 

It  may  admit  of  a  doubt  whether  Merriman's 
worldliness  was  really  a  very  strong  objection 
to  him  in  Miss  Hopkinson's  mind,  or  whether, 
in  her  secret  thought,  she  cherished  so  strong 
an  assurance  that  she  should  dislike  him  as 
she  pretended.  She  chose  to  take  a  defiant 
tone  in  speaking  about  him  to  her  brother  ; 
but  who  knows  what  little  plans  she  made  for 
the  time  of  his  visit,  what  little  touches  of  new 
ness  her  simple  wardrobe  privately  underwent, 
what  innocent  dreams  lent  a  subdued  excite 
ment  to  her  maiden  meditations  ? 

And  now  the  epistle  was  come  which  would 
decide  her  plans  for  the  holidays. 

A  single  quick  glance,  as  she  took  it  from  the 
hands  of  the  postmaster,  had  told  her  that  the 
postmark  was  New  York  and  that  the  hand 
writing  was — well,  was  similar,  in  fact,  to  the 
autograph  under  a  certain  photo  in  the  Rev. 
Charles  Hopkinson's  class  album. 

Miss  Hopkinson  was  not  conscious  what  a 
charming  "  spot  of  color "  she  added  to  the 
demi-gray  landscape  as  she  walked  slowly  on, 
intent  on  deciphering  the  letter,  or  now  and 
then  stood  still  to  make  out  a  word.  The  snow 


84  A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

creaked  under  her  sauntering  footsteps  ;  the 
wind,  which  made  a  wintry  music  among  the 
dry  stalks  of  golden  rod  along  the  path,  swayed 
her  light  figure,  and  blowing  aside  her  cloak, 
exposed  the  scarlet  lining.  It  also  rumpled  the 
fringe  of  yellow  hair  that  hung  down  under  the 
eaves  of  her  hood,  and  when  at  last  she  finished 
the  letter  and  lifted  her  indignant  eyes,  the 
darkening  heaven  which  they  encountered  was 
less  deeply  and  softly  blue.  Indignant  eyes, 
for  they  had  just  read  the  following  words  : 

DEAR  MRS.  VAN  SHUYSTER  : 

Your  invitation  comes  just  in  time  to  save  me 
from  another,  which  I  couldn't  very  well  have 
declined,  to  spend  my  Christmas  with  a  clerical  class 
mate  who  "keeps  a  few  sheep  in  the  wilderness," 
with  an  old-maid  sister  for  shepherdess.  Accept  my 
gratitude,  and  expect  me  on  the  23d  to  rehearse, 
though  I  think  I  remember  the  part  well  enough. 
Yours  thankfully, 

WILLIAM  MERRIMAN. 

The  snarl  of  emotions  which  filled  the  young 
lady's  breast,  the  reader  will  hardly  expect  me 
to  untangle.  She  gave  a  fierce  little  laugh  and 
clutched  the  wicked  missive  tightly  as  she 
strode  up  the  hill.  Had  she  been  given  to 
soliloquy — a  habit  convenient  to  novelists,  but 
seldom,  alas  !  indulged  in  in  this  work-a-day 
world — her  monologue  might  perhaps  have  run 
in  this  wise :  "  Well,  you  have  given  yourself 
away,  Mr.  William  Merriman !  So  I'm  an  old 
maid,  am  I,  and  a  shepherdess,  and  Charlie  is 


A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  85 

a  'clerical  classmate '?  — poor  Charlie,  that 
thinks  he  is  his  best  friend,  and  all  the  while 
he  is  laughing  at  him  behind  his  back  and 
sneering  about  us  to  his  rich  acquaintances 
like  Hattie  Van  Shuyster.  (What  a  queer 
coincidence  that  he  should  be  going  to  the  Van 
Shuysters' !  Of  course  he  can't  know  that 
Hattie  is  a  friend  of  mine.)  He  thinks  we  are 
not  '  swell '  enough  for  him.  I  always  knew 
he  would  prove  to  be  a  snob,  a  perfidious, 
ungrateful,  odious  snob,"  etc.,  etc. 

The  letter  raised  a  number  of  problems, 
which  she  puzzled  over  as  she  sat  at  tea  that 
evening.  Ought  she,  for  instance,  to  destroy 
the  note,  or  keep  it  till  Charlie  came  back,  and 
then  show  it  to  him  and  let  him  return  it  to 
Merriman  without  further  comment  than  to 
mark  on  the  envelope,  in  lead-pencil,  "  Opened 
by  mistake  by  C.  H."  ?  This  latter  plan  would 
have  a  fine  crushing  effect.  But  then  she  knew 
that  the  letter  would  make  Charlie  feel  badly, 
and  she  was  not  quite  sure  that  he  would  ap 
prove  of  her  having  gone  on  to  read  it  after 
seeing  that  the  address  was  a  mistake.  Men 
are  so  fussy  about  these  little  points.  Then, 
again,  ought  she  under  the  circumstances  to  give 
up  her  projected  visit  or  to  spend  her  Christmas 
at  home  ?  "  Charlie  will  be  awfully  lonely,"  she 
thought,  "  but  then  what  a  chance  !  what  a 
chance !  "  And  she  smiled  maliciously  as  she 
packed  her  trunk  and  put  the  letter  in  the  tray 
of  it. 

The  next  morning  her  brother  came  back. 


86  A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

She  greeted  him  with  more  effusion  than  usual, 
and  hung  on  his  arm  as  he  stood  warming  him 
self  by  the  air-tight  stove  in  the  hall. 

"  Any  letters  ?  "  he  asked  after  a  while. 

"  Oh,  yes,  a  few  lines  from  Mr.  Merriman. 
He  can't  come,  because  he  has  made  another 
engagement  for  the  holidays.  So  I've  packed 
up,  and  I  told  Mason  to  have  the  stage  stop  for 
me  after  dinner.  But,  Charlie  dear,  I  don't  feel 
at  all  like  going  and  leaving  you  alone.  Please 
reconsider  and  go  with  me.  The  Van  Shuysters 
will  be  so  glad.  Hattie  has  been  wanting  to 
know  you  for  years  ;  and  you  know  what  a  point 
they  made  of  your  coming." 

"  No,  no  ;  I  can't,"  answered  Charlie.  "  Jen 
kins  has  made  arrangements  to  exchange  with 
Burroughs  next  Sunday,  and  couldn't  preach 
for  me.  Old  Mr.  Stone  may  drop  off  any 
minute,  and  the  family  wouldn't  like  anyone 
else  to  conduct  the  funeral.  I  shouldn't  prob 
ably  enjoy  the  party  much  anyway,  I  should 
have  to  hurry  back  so.  I'm  sorry  Merriman 
can't  come,  but  I  shall  have  a  snug  Christmas 
and  get  that  work  done  for  the  Christian  And 
iron  that  I  promised  to  send  them  a  week  ago. 
You  didn't  burn  Merriman's  letter,  did  you  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  laid  it  down  somewhere.  You  might 
find  it  on  the  library  table — and  then,  again, 
you  mightn't,"  she  added  under  her  breath,  as 
she  ran  off  to  the  kitchen  for  a  final  interview 
with  Emma,  the  "  help." 

The  late  lamented  Van  Shuyster  had  amused 


A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  87 

his  leisure  with  scientific  and  artistic  dabblings, 
and  had  built  a  large  room  with  a  skylight 
adjoining  his  library,  in  which  to  carry  on 
experiments  in  the  black  arts  of  photography, 
electricity,  and  molding  in  clay.  This,  Mrs. 
Van  Shuyster,  who  had  a  passion  for  theatricals, 
had  lately  reorganized  into  a  sort  of  dramatic 
saloon,  closing  the  skylight  and  arranging  a 
tasteful  little  stage  at  the  upper  end.  Here,  on 
the  evening  of  Christmas  day,  was  seated  an 
audience  of  some  two  hundred  guests,  waiting 
for  the  play  to  begin.  The  room  was  unlighted 
except  by  the  reflection  from  the  drop-curtain, 
which  hung  softly  brilliant  in  the  radiance  of 
the  foot-lights.  On  either  side  of  the  stage 
were  painted  in  fresco  grotesque  masks,  socks 
and  buskins,  and  other  histrionic  insignia.  The 
walls  were  decorated  with  Christmas  greens 
and  illuminated  Gothic  texts  expressive  of  senti 
ments  appropriate  to  the  season.  A  subdued 
hum  of  conversation  filled  the  assembly,  a  faint 
perfume  hovered  on  the  air,  and  here  and  there 
a  jewel  flashed  in  the  dimness.  There  were 
yet  some  minutes  to  spare  before  the  curtain 
would  be  rung  up,  and  Merriman,  who  had 
finished  dressing  for  his  part,  stepped  out  upon 
the  stage  in  the  costume  of  a  Spanish  alcalde  of 
the  seventeenth  century.  Finding  a  crack  in 
the  curtain,  he  began  a  leisurely  survey  of  the 
audience.  He  was  presently  joined  by  Miss 
Van  Shuyster,  who  emerged  from  a  thicket  at 
L.  L.  E.  in  a  ravishing  peasant  costume  with 
shortish  skirts  and  high  heels,  and  with  her 


88  A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

arms,  which  were  shapely  but  rather  massive 
for  a  young  girl,  bare  to  the  shoulder. 

"  Well,  well !  Such  curiosity  !  "  she  ex 
claimed. 

"  'Sh  !  "  he  responded  softly  ;  "  here's  an 
other  hole ;  come  and  peep." 

"Who  is  here?"  she  asked.  "I  haven't 
seen  a  soul  yet  outside  of  the  troupe,  I've  been 
so  busy  getting  things  ready.  Mamma  and 
Charlie  have  been  receiving  the  people.  Aren't 
you  awfully  nervous  ?  " 

"  Frightfully.  I  know  a  few  of  the  audience, 
but  more  of  them  I  don't.  The  room  is 
rather  dark  to  make  out  faces.  Come  and  do 
Helen  on  the  battlements  of  Troy  pointing  out 
the  leaders  of  the  Greeks  to  the  Trojan  old  men. 
I'll  be  a  Trojan  old  man.  Don't  I  look  vener 
able  in  this  dress  ?  " 

"  Talk  about  dresses  !  I  never,  never  will  be 
a  peasant  again.  Don't  you  think  it's  horrid  ?  " 

He  turned  and  inspected  her  critically.  She 
cast  down  her  eyes  and  stood  demurely  to  be 
looked  at,  with  the  least  little  conscious  red  on 
her  cheek.  "  You  mean,"  he  said,  "  that  it's  a 
trifle — unsecluded  ?  Well,  you  can't  expect  me 
to  object  to  that." 

"  Ac/i  /  gehen  Sie  !  gehen  Sie ! '"  she  an 
swered,  turning  away.  "  Where  is  that  peep 
hole?" 

"  Here  is  mine,  and  there  is  a  larger  one  for 
you  close  by  it." 

It  was  in  effect  so  close  that,  as  they  stood 
side  by  side  to  play  spy  on  the  audience,  her 


A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  89 

dress  brushed  slightly  against  him,  and  he  be 
came  aware  of  that  subtle  aroma  which  is 
neither  the  breath  of  the  lips  nor  the  fragrance 
of  the  hair,  nor  yet  any  definite  odor  like  violet 
or  musk,  but  which  is  a  delicate  suggestion  and 
reminiscence  of  all  these  and  holds  a  natural 
affinity  with  silk  and  kidskin.  She  stood  very 
still,  as  if  the  proximity  was  not  unpleasant. 
Merriman  was  evidently  on  easy  terms  with  this 
young  lady,  and  it  occurred  to  him  now,  as  it 
had  often  done  before,  with  a  certain  complac 
ency,  that  her  inclination  toward  him  was 
rather  thinly  disguised.  Augustus  Montague 
had  once  said  to  him  at  a  ball — Augustus  Mon 
tague,  whose  acuteness  of  observation  was 
only  equaled  by  his  frankness  of  speech  : 

"  Damn  it,  Merriman,  why  don't  you  go  in 
for  Miss  Van  ?  I'll  bet  my  sweet  life  she  says 
'  Yes.'  A  bonanza,  my  boy ;  millions  in  it. 
Law's  awful  slow ;  you'll  never  get  rich  at  it. 
Fire  out  your  office-boy,  and  take  Miss  Van 
into  partnership.  Wedding  in  Grace  Church  : 
tour  out  West ;  settle  down  on  the  old  woman 
for  a  few  months  ;  and  then  Mrs.  M.  finds  that 
her  throat  is  delicate  and  she  can't  stand  this 
beastly  changeable  climate,  and  so  off  you  go, 
up  the  Nile  and  everywhere,  first  bestowing  a 
life-pension  on  yours  truly  in  gratitude  for  this 
advice." 

"  In  sooth,  Augustus,"  Merriman  had  an 
swered,  laughing,  "  I  might  do  worse.  And 
there  she  is  now  ;  I'll  go  ask  her — to  dance." 

"  Conceited  cuss  !  but  the  women  like  him," 


QO  A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

murmured  Mr.  Montague,  as  he  watched  his 
friend  making  his  way  up  the  room. 

And  indeed  Merriman  had  often  acknowl 
edged  to  himself  in  his  more  worldly  moods 
that  he  might  do  worse.  Wealth,  with  its  re 
finements  and  elegancies,  had  lost  none  of  its 
glamour  in  the  eyes  of  an  ambitious  youth 
reared  in  a  New  England  factory  town,  who 
had  struggled  with  poverty  through  school  and 
college  and  had  come  to  New  York  with  a 
sharp  appetite  for  success.  Besides,  Miss  Van 
Shuyster,  though  somewhat  heavy  and  com 
monplace,  was  not  without  personal  attrac 
tions.  Montague's  remark  passed  through  his 
mind  again  this  evening  as  he  stood  adjusting 
his  eye  to  the  little  slit  in  the  canvas. 

The  spectators  were  grouped  with  a  pictur 
esque  irregularity.  There  was  no  slope  to  the 
floor  of  the  theater,  but  the  seating  had  been 
arranged  as  far  as  possible  so  as  to  let  those  at 
the  rear  look  over  the  heads  of  those  in  front. 
Nearest  to  the  stage  was  a  double  row  of  men 
squatted  Turkish  fashion  on  the  carpet — here 
and  there  among  them  a  young  woman  lifted 
above  the  general  level  upon  a  cushion  or 
brioche.  Conspicuous  among  these  was  Miss 
Charlotte  Middlesex,  chattering  and  laughing 
with  her  admirers.  "  Now,  I  want  you  to 
understand,"  she  called  out,  "  that  we  all  be 
long  to  the  claque  down  here,  and  I  shall  ex 
pect  you  to  back  the  show." 

"  Shall  we  applaud  everything,  Charlie  ?  " 
asked  one. 


A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  91 

"  No,  indeed.  Oh,  I  have  my  favorites,  I 
tell  you.  You  must  wait  for  me  to  give  the 
signal.  When  I  want  you  to  clap,  I'll  tap  Mr. 
Block  on  the  head — so — with  my  fan,  and  he 
will  lead  off.  Three  taps  means  an  encore. 
Mr.  Block,  I  hope  your  head  isn't  very  soft,  for 
I  know  I  shall  get  enthusiastic  in  the  senti 
mental  parts." 

"  Let  me  get  you  a  camp-chair,  Miss  Middle 
sex,"  cried  another  ;  "  you  will  get  awfully  tired 
without  a  back." 

"  No,  no  ;  I  don't  want  a  chair  ;  Mrs.  Est- 
ridge's  knees  make  a  lovely  back.  Pinkie 
Buchanan,  be  a  good  fellow  and  pass  me  that 
paper  of  burnt  almonds.  Isn't  this  awfully, 
awfully  jolly  ?  Like  sitting  on  the  grass  at  a 
circus !  " 

Behind  this  advance  guard,  led  by  Miss 
Middlesex,  were  several  rows  of  low  wicker 
settees;  behind  these,  higher  tiers  of  uphol 
stered  sofas  and  chairs  ;  and,  at  the  rear  of  the 
room,  a  few  seats  mounted  on  tables.  On  one 
of  the  highest  of  these,  as  upon  a  throne,  sat  a 
girl  whose  face  seemed  to  form  the  apex  of  the 
whole  assembly  and  the  focus  of  all  the  scat 
tered  rays  of  light  in  the  room.  It  was  a  short, 
rosy  face,  crowned  with  heavy  coils  of  straw- 
colored  hair.  The  mouth  was  large.  The  dark 
eyes  were  leveled  steadily  at  the  drop-scene, 
and  Merriman  had  a  nervous  feeling  as  if  they 
looked  through  the  canvas  into  his  own.  Her 
ensemble  was  so  striking  that  no  jewelry  would 
have  been  too  rich,  no  colors  too  pronounced, 


92  A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

which  she  might  have  chosen  to  wear.  But 
she  was  dressed  very  simply  in  a  white  cash 
mere,  with  a  necklace  of  the  palest  amber  for 
her  sole  ornament. 

"  Who  is  that  very  handsome  girl  at  the 
back  of  the  room  ?  "  inquired  Merriman,  after 
regarding  her  fixedly  for  several  minutes. 

"  Handsome  girl  ?  "  echoed  his  hostess. 
"  Which  one  ?  Where  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  see?  In  a  white  dress  ;  right  in 
the  center  of  the  last  row." 

"  Well,  to  be  sure  !  How  glad  I  am  she's 
come  !  Why,  it's  Sally  Hopkinson,  an  old  fern, 
sem.  chum  of  mine  ;  and  I  haven't  seen  her  for 
a  year.  Do  you  think  her  pretty  ?  " 

"  Pretty  !     She  is  gorgeous." 

"  She  has  a  lovely  complexion  and  hair.  But 
her  mouth  is  big,  and  her  eyes  don't  match 
with  the  rest  of  her  face." 

"  I  like  a  generous  mouth,"  said  Merriman. 
"  What's  her  name  ?  Hopkinson  ?  Where 
from  ?" 

"  Why,  she  is  a  compatriot  of  yours — from 
Massachusetts.  She  lives  in  a  little  country 
town  in  Berkshire,  with  her  brother,  who  is  a 
minister.  We  used  to  call  her  the  Puritan 
maiden  Priscilla  at  the  seminary.  I'm  so  glad 
you  like  her  looks  ! " 

At  this  moment  the  prompter's  bell  rang 
sharply,  a  hush  fell  on  the  audience,  and  the 
curtain  began  to  tremble.  Merriman  and  his 
companion  fled  into  the  side-scenes  just  in 
time  to  avoid  an  exposure. 


A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  93 

The  reader  shall  not  be  bored  by  a  descrip 
tion  of  the  play  which  followed,  nor  of  the 
manner  in  which  the  various  actors  acquitted 
themselves,  nor  of  the  comments  of  the  specta 
tors.  Let  it  pass  silently  over  our  stage,  like 
the  dumb  show  in  an  old  comedy,  noting  only 
that  one  of  the  mimes  carried  all  through  his 
role  a  sub-consciousness  of  a  figure  in  white 
and  a  pair  of  indigo  eyes  that  stared  at  him 
from  the  end  of  the  auditorium.  In  spite  of 
which  distraction,  he  acted  with  his  usual 
cleverness,  and  won  loud  applause  from  Charlie 
Middlesex  and  her  band  of  claqueurs. 

When  the  play  was  over,  the  company  filed 
out  of  the  theater  and  stood  about  in  groups  in 
the  large  parlors  and  library,  discussing  the 
performance.  Merriman,  having  washed  off 
his  war-paint,  went  in  search  of  Miss  Van 
Shuyster,  whom  he  found  receiving  congratula 
tions  on  the  success  of  her  theatricals. 

"  You  promised  to  introduce  me  to  Miss 
Hopkinson,"  said  Merriman,  joining  her  circle. 

"Oh,  yes.  There  she  is  now,  talking  with 
Charlie  and  Mr.  Block,  at  the  end  of  the  room. 
I  haven't  spoken  to  her  yet." 

The  greeting  between  the  two  young  ladies 
was  effusive. 

"  You  dear  little  Yankee !  "  said  the  hostess, 
kissing  her  guest  several  times  in  rapid  succes 
sion.  "Why  didn't  you  come  sooner?  You've 
got  to  stay  with  us,  now,  till  after  New  Year. 
And  why  didn't  you  bring  your  brother?  I 
want  to  introduce  an  admirer,  who  says  that  he 


94  A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

knows  your  brother  and  is  so  disappointed  that 
he  didn't  come  with  you.  Mr.  Merriman,  Miss 
Hopkinson." 

Merriman  bowed  eagerly,  and  Miss  Hopkin 
son  rather  coldly. 

"  If  you  are  Charlie  Hopkinson's  sister,"  he 
began,  "I  feel  as  if  I  knew  you  already. 
Charlie  and  I  were  chums  at  college,  you  know, 
for  two  years." 

"  Yes,  I  have  heard  him  speak  of  you,"  said 
Miss  Hopkinson,  not  very  emotionally. 

Merriman  was  about  to  speak  again,  when 
Miss  Middlesex  broke  in,  fixing  her  large  eyes 
on  him,  sighing  and  waving  her  fan  slowly : 
"  Oh,  Mr.  Merriman,  how  beautifully  you 
acted  !  I  don't  see  how  you  do  it.  I  never 
could.  I  should  break  right  down." 

"  Miss  Middlesex  has  too  much  individuality 
for  an  actress.  She  couldn't  lose  herself  in  her 
part,"  said  Merriman,  laughing. 

"  No,  it  isn't  that,"  she  replied,  shaking  her 
head  mournfully ;  "  but  I  could  not  face  the 
audience — never — never!  'Twould  be  blush, 
blush,  blush  with  me,  like  that  poor  man  in 
Hardy's  novel." 

"  Oh,  we  all  know  how  bashful  you  are,  poor 
thing ! "  said  Miss  Van  Shuyster.  "  What 
made  Mr.  Block  run  away  when  we  came  up  ?  " 

"  He's  gone  to  smoke  a  cigarette  in  the 
billiard-room,"  answered  Charlie,  pouting.  "  I 
wanted  to  go  awfully,  but  my  stern  mamma 
has  come  down  on  my  cigarette-smoking.  She 
says  it  stains  my  finger-tips.  Do  you  think  it 


A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  95 

does,  Mr.  Merriman  ? "  And  she  held  up  a 
row  of  ten  little  rosy  puffs. 

"  It  does,"  said  her  cousin  quickly.  "  And  it 
burns  holes  in  the  front  breadth  of  your 
dresses." 

Miss  Hopkinson  looked  slightly  shocked. 

The  door  of  the  supper-room  was  now 
thrown  open,  and  there  was  a  general  move  in 
that  direction. 

"  Miss  Hopkinson,  will  you  let  me  get  you 
something  to  eat  ?  "  asked  Merriman,  offering 
his  arm.  She  took  it,  and  they  walked  away. 

"  I  can't  abide  your  prim  friend,  Hattie,"  said 
Miss  Middlesex,  looking  after  them.  "She 
always  makes  me  feel  vulgar." 

"  She  isn't  prim  when  you  know  her ;  at 
school  she  was  quite  a  romp — a  regular  fiend 
in  pillow-fights  and  such  things." 

"Let  us  go  into  the  conservatory,"  proposed 
Merriman  to  his  companion  :  "  it's  nice  and  cool 
in  there,  and  plenty  of  room." 

He  seated  her  on  a  porcelain  garden  chair, 
and  she  listened  to  the  splash  of  the  little 
fountain,  in  whose  basin  a  few  goldfish  were 
swimming  about,  while  he  went  to  get  her 
some  supper.  She  occupied  this  interval  in 
thinking  over  a  plan  of  campaign,  but  reached 
no  definite  resolution  further  than  to  stand  on 
the  defensive  and  be  guided  by  circumstances 
until  the  opportunity  came  to  mass  her  heavy 
battalions  on  the  enemy's  center.  Presently  he 
returned  with  some  salad  and  biscuits,  and 
stood  before  her,  holding  her  plate,  while  she 


g6  A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

arranged  the  napkin  over  her  lap.  "  You  can't 
think  how  surprised  I  am  to  meet  you  here," 
he  said,  as  he  handed  her  the  plate  and  their 
eyes  met. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Well,  I  had  no  idea  that  you  knew  the  Van 
Shuysters." 

"  Hadn't  you  ?  "  she  answered  indifferently. 
But  she  thought  to  herself,  "  That  means  as 
much  as,  '  I  took  you  for  a  little  country  school- 
marm,  with  your  hair  full  of  hay-seed,  and  here 
you  are  all  of  a  sudden  in  my  own  motfde" 

"  And,  besides  that — didn't  you  know  ? — 
Charlie  asked  me  up  to  Chuckatuck  to  spend 
Christmas  ;  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  my  en 
gagement  here  I  should  certainly  have  been 
there  now." 

"  Yes,  I  knew  he  was  expecting  you." 

"  Well,  it  seems  that  I  did  the  lucky  thing, 
after  all,  when  I  accepted  Mrs.  Van  Shuyster's 
bid  first." 

"  Oh,  I  think  you  did  :  you  would  have  been 
awfully  bored  at  Chuckatuck." 

"  No  ;  you  misunderstand  me.  I  shouldn't 
have  been  bored  at  all.  But  I  should  have 
missed  seeing  Miss  Hopkinson." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  was  to  stay  at  home  if  you  came, 
and  help  entertain  you." 

"  That  would  have  been  rough  on  you,  but  I 
don't  know  but  what  it  would  have  been  nicer 
for  me.  I  should  have  had  you  and  Charlie 
more  to  myself,  you  know,  than  I  can  here. 
Come,  now,  what  were  you  going  to  do  for  my 


A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  97 

entertainment  ?  Methinks  I  see  visions  of 
moonlight  sleigh-rides,  and  candy-pulls  in  the 
kitchen.  I  should  like  to  see  you  with  the 
housewife's  apron  on,  doing  the  domestic  veal 
for  Charlie." 

"  I  never  wear  an  apron  ;  and  I  hate  sleigh- 
rides  and  candy-pulls— they  freeze  your  feet  and 
blister  your  hands,"  returned  his  vis-a-vis  un 
graciously. 

There  was  silence  for  a  while  as  they  dis 
patched  their  respective  salads.  Merriman  was 
thinking  to  himself,  "  What  a  queer  girl  to  be 
Hopkinson's  sister  !  There's  no  mistake  about 
her  being  a  smasher ;  but  she  isn't  exactly 
genial."  Finally,  he  recommenced  :  "  How  is 
Charlie,  anyway  ?  I  haven't  seen  him  for  an 
age.  Why  didn't  you  bring  him  with  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  couldn't  leave  his  sheep  alone  in 
the  wilderness,  you  know,"  she  answered,  with 
a  resentful  glance. 

Merriman  vaguely  recollected  having  heard 
or  used  this  phrase  somewhere,  but  he  could 
not  place  it  definitely,  and  he  was  quite  at  a 
loss  to  interpret  the  look  which  accompanied 
it.  "  Let  me  get  you  some  oysters,"  he  proposed. 
"  No  ?  Look  out  for  the  train  of  your  dress,  or 
it  will  get  into  that  fountain.  I  never  come 
into  a  conservatory  without  thinking  of  an  ad 
venture  I  had  at  the  Buyclamms'  party  last 
winter.  I  took  my  partner  into  the  conserva 
tory  to  feed  her,  and,  while  she  was  explaining 
to  me  that  one  side  of  a  begonia-leaf  is  always 
bigger  than  the  other,  I  tripped  backward 


9 8  A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

over  the  rim  of  the  fountain — it  was  a  smaller 
one  than  this,  only  held  a  tureenful — and  sat 
right  clown  in  it.  I  slapped  the  water  all  out 
of  the  basin,  and  killed  one  goldfish." 

"  How  funny  !  "  said  Miss  Hopkinson,  laugh 
ing  in  spite  of  herself.  "  What  did  you  do  ?  " 

"  My  partner  had  great  presence  of  mind, 
and  fortunately  there  were  few  people  in  the 
parlors.  They'd  mostly  gone  out  into  the  sup 
per-room.  She  took  my  arm  and  covered  my 
retreat  nobly  as  far  as  the  stairs,  and  I  got  up 
into  the  dressing  room,  slipped  on  my  overcoat, 
and  made  my  escape  without  further  disgrace." 

"  All  of  which  shows  how  dangerous  it  is  to 
feed  botanical  young  ladies  in  a  conservatory." 

"  Ah,"  began  Merriman  with  a  sentimental 
air,  "  if  botany  were  the  only  dangerous  thing 
about  them  !  " 

"  Well,"  she  broke  in  hastily,  "  please  don't 
repeat  your  sitz-bath  on  my  account.  I 
shouldn't  have  the  same  presence  of  mind,  I'm 
afraid." 

"  Should  you  scream  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  should  laugh." 

"  How  hard-hearted  you  are !  Are  you 
through  with  your  plate  ?  Let  me  take  it  away 
and  get  you  some  cream  and  things."  He  dis 
appeared,  much  elated  by  the  thaw  in  her 
humor.  "  She  isn't  so  chilly,  after  all,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "  It  seems  that  she  does  know  how 
to  relax  and  desipere  a  bit  in  loco"  He  re 
turned  quickly  with  a  plate  of  ices  and  a  glass 
of  sherry. 


A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  99 

"  You  may  keep  the  sherry,  please,"  she  said, 
as  she  took  the  plate. 

"  Doesn't  the  dominie  let  you  drink  wine  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  As  if  he  could  stop  me  if  I  wanted  to !  " 
with  a  toss  of  the  head. 

"  Then,  if  you  won't,  why,  '  Drink  to  me  only 
with  thine  eyes.'  Prosit,  Miss  Hopkinson." 
And  he  raised  the  glass  to  his  lips.  "  Do  you 
know,"  he  went  on  presently,  "  that  I  can't  get 
over  my  surprise  at  your  being  Charlie  Hopkin- 
son's  sister  ?  You  look  so  entirely  unlike  him. 
I  can  see  perhaps  a  slight  family  resemblance  in 
the  shape  of  the  face,  but  your  eyes  are  totally 
strange." 

She  cast  down  the  features  alluded  to  and 
reddened  slightly,  moving  uneasily  in  her  chair 
with  a  look  of  annoyance.  She  found  herself 
drifting  into  a  sort  of  mild  flirtation  with  this 
offensive  young  man,  whom  she  had  come 
prepared  to  dazzle  into  a  sufficient  state  of 
admiration  and  then  to  snub  into  abject  humil 
ity — perhaps  by  handing  him  back  his  letter 
with  a  lofty  and  withering  speech  of  some  kind, 
if  a  good  opportunity  offered.  But  her  indigna 
tion,  which  had  seemed  so  virtuous  at  Chucka- 
tuck,  appeared  to  her  now  rather  overstrained. 
Perhaps  the  letter  was  not  so  very  bad,  after 
all.  To  be  sure,  it  was  a  shame  for  him  to  write 
so  to  anyone  about  Charlie.  But  as  to  the 
spretce  injurza  formce  which  had  unconfessedly 
formed  no  small  part  of  its  sting,  that  was 
atoned  for  by  his  evident  admiration  and  as- 


ioo          A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

tonishment  at  sight  of  the  "  old-maid  sister " 
and  "  shepherdess "  whom  he  had  traduced. 
Certainly  the  man  was  amusing  enough,  and 
probably  meant  well,  although  he  was  so  very, 
very  light. 

"  Miss  Hopkinson,"  he  now  resumed,  as  he 
finished  his  sherry,  "  what  relation  is  a  fellow  to 
his  chum's  sister  ?  " 

"  I  should  say  that  depended  on  what  relation 
he  was  to  his  chum." 

"  Oh,  first-cousin  at  least.  I  think  twice  as 
much  of  your  brother  as  I  do  of  my  cousins — 
whose  name  is  legion.  Why  doesn't  he  get  a 
nice  little  parish  near  New  York,  where  he 
wouldn't  be  so  cut  off  from  his  old  friends  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  he  can  get  along  without  his  old 
friends  as  well  as  some  of  them  seem  to  without 
him,"  she  answered  with  asperity.  Her  resent 
ment  had  suddenly  come  back  to  her,  provoked 
by  the  insincerity  and  the  patronizing  tone  of 
this  last  remark. 

"  I  don't  quite  know  what  you  mean,"  said 
Merriman. 

As  fate  would  have  it,  she  pulled  her  handker 
chief  out  of  her  dress-pocket  at  this  instant,  and 
a  letter  which  was  pulled  out  with  it  fell  on  the 
floor.  He  stooped  to  pick  it  up  for  her,  and,  as 
he  did  so,  she  rose,  and  gathering  up  the  train 
of  her  dress,  replied,  "Perhaps  you  will  know 
what  I  mean,  Mr.  Merriman,  if  you  will  read 
over  that  letter  again,  which  belongs  to  you,  by 
the  way,  and  not  to  me.  Keep  it,  please." 

As  Merriman  in  blank  amazement  proceeded 


A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.          IOI 

to  open  the  letter  and  glance  over  the  familiar 
writing,  Miss  Van  Shuyster,  followed  by  a  tall 
young  man,  appeared  at  the  conservatory  door. 
"  So  here  is  where  you  two  have  been  hiding  all 
this  time  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I've  been  looking 
everywhere  for  you,  Sallie,  to  introduce  Mr. 
Polhemus.  Miss  Hopkinson,  Mr.  Polhemus." 

The  gentleman  bowed  and  said,  "  They  are 
making  up  a  set  in  the  library,  Miss  Hopkinson  : 
shall  I  have  the  honor  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  she  answered,  courtesied  slightly 
to  Merriman,  and  departed  on  Mr.  Polhemus' 
arm.  Miss  Van  Shuyster  remained  in  the  con 
servatory. 

"  Since  when,  Miss  Van  Shuyster,"  broke  out 
Merriman  excitedly,  holding  up  the  letter,  "  is  it 
considered  a  delicate  joke  among  young  ladies 
to  show  each  other  the  correspondence  of  their 
gentlemen  friends  ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 
"  Perhaps  you  may,  then,  if  you  will  look  at 
this,  which  is  addressed  to  you,  but  which  Miss 
Hopkinson  has  just  handed  to  me" 

She  took  the  letter,  and,  glancing  over  it,  said 
immediately,  "  This  letter  was  never  sent  to  me, 
but  another  one  was.  If  you  will  look  at  the 
address  on  the  envelope,  I  think  you  will  see  how 
Miss  Hopkinson  came  by  it.  And  I  assure  you 
I  don't  feel  complimented  by  your  suspicion." 

Merriman  glared  in  a  bewildered  way  at  the 
envelope,  and  then  replied,  "  I  beg  your  pardon  ; 
I  see  it  all  now.  I'm  the  jackass  of  the  nine 
teenth  century.  But  I  wish  you  had  told  me  of 


102          A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

my  mistake  before.  It  has  put  me  in  a  very 
embarrassing  position  with  the  Hopkinsons." 

"  How  could  I  know  who  your  letter  was 
for  ?  "  she  demanded  warmly.  "  I  intended  to 
mention  your  mistake  to  you  and  give  you  back 
your  letter,  but  it  slipped  my  mind  entirely  till 
this  minute.  If  people  will  be  so  stupid  as  to 
mix  up  their  correspondence,  they  must  take  the 
consequences." 

"  It's  all  my  fault,"  said  he  ;  "  but  it's  very 
unfortunate." 

"  You  seem  to  care  a  good  deal  about  Miss 
Hopkinson's  opinion,"  she  said,  with  a  tremor 
in  her  voice. 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  he  answered. 

At  this  moment  the  vivacious  Miss  Middle 
sex  darkened  the  door,  and  began,  "  Oh,  Mr, 
Merriman,  I  had  almost  forgot.  Such  a  give 
away  on  you  !  Who — who  is  '  Charlie  '  ? 
Why,  what's  the  row  ?  "  looking  from  one  to 
the  other. 

"  '  Row  '  is  not  a  lady-like  expression,"  re 
sponded  Miss  Van  Shuyster  severely  ;  "  and  I 
wish  you  wouldn't  apply  your  slang  terms  to 
me,  please."  And  with  that  she  swept  from 
the  room. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  to  my  cousin, 
Mr.  Merriman  ?  "  inquired  Charlie. 

"  Oh,  nothing,  Miss  Mildlesex :  amanttum 
ircz,  you  know,"  said  Merriman,  with  a  feeble 
laugh. 

"  I  know  that's  Latin  ;  but  I  think  you  might 
translate." 


A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.          103 

"  Come,  let's  go  and  have  a  dance,"  he  pro 
posed. 

« I  think  you  are  hawru?"  she  said,  taking 
his  arm  ;  "  but  I'll  get  it  all  out  of  Hattie.  I 
can  make  her  tell  me  anything  I  want  by 
threatening  to  tickle  her  if  she  doesn't." 

"  Mrs.  Van  Shuyster,"  said  Merriman,  about 
half  an  hour  later,  approaching  his  hostess, 
whose  matronly  figure  was  filling  an  arm 
chair  in  the  recess  of  the  library,  "  I  had  hoped 
to  accept  your  invitation  to  stay  a  day  or  two, 
but  I  find  that  a  reference  which  comes  on  to 
morrow  will  make  it  absolutely  necessary  for 
me  to  catch  the  down  train  to-night." 

«  Oh,  I  am  sorry !  Couldn't  you  postpone 
it,  or  something?  One  or  two  of  Hattie's 
friends  are  to  stay  through  the  week,  and  she 
had  counted  on  you  to  beau  them  about. 
Hattie,"  she  called  out  to  her  daughter,  who 
was  talking  to  a  group  of  ladies  near  by,  "Mr. 
Merriman  says  that  he  has  an  engagement 
which  will  take  him  to  New  York  to-night. 

•<  We  should  be  very  sorry  to  interfere  with 
any  of  Mr.  Merriman's  engagements,"  returned 

Hattie. 

"  Then  I  will  bid  you  good-evening,  ladies, 

said  Mevriman. 

"Must   you   really?     Well,   then,  good-by 
said  Mrs.  Van  Shuyster,  putting  out  her  hand. 
"  We  are  ever  so  much  obliged  to  you  for  com 
ing  and  for  your  help  in  the  play,  and  so  sorry 
that  you  can't  stay." 


104          A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

The  younger  lady  simply  bowed,  and  Merri- 
man  withdrew.  He  went  at  once  into  the 
next  room,  where  the  dance  was  just  over,  and 
approached  Miss  Hopkinson,  who  was  stand 
ing  by  the  mantel-piece,  talking  with  her 
partner.  "  May  I  speak  with  you  a  moment, 
Miss  Hopkinson  ? "  he  asked  :  "  I  have  to 
catch  this  train." 

"  Why,  I  suppose  so, "she  responded,  with  an 
air  of  surprise,  "  if  Mr.  Polhemus  will  excuse 
me." 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  said  Polhemus,  glaring  at 
Merriman  and  moving  off  reluctantly. 

"  Miss  Hopkinson,"  began  our  hero,  "  may 
I  ask  whether  your  brother  commissioned  you 
to  say  anything  to  me  about  that  unfortunate 
letter?" 

"  My  brother  has  not  seen  it." 

"  Not  seen  it !    Who  then  ?  " 

"  I  opened  the  letter.  Charlie  was  away  for 
a  day  or  two,  and  he  told  me  to  open  all  his 
letters,  as  some  of  them  might  need  answering 
before  he  got  back." 

"  And  you  didn't  show  it  to  him  afterward  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  was  afraid  it  might  hurt  his  feel 
ings:  so  I  merely  told  him  that  you  had  made 
another  engagement." 

He  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief :  "  I  can't  thank 
you  too  much  for  your  thoughtfulness.  I 
wouldn't  have  had  Charlie  see  that  letter  for 
anything." 

She,  too,  felt  relieved.  She  had  half  ex 
pected  to  be  put  on  her  defense  for  reading  his 


A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  105 

note  after  she  saw  that  it  was  meant  for  some 
one  else.  But  it  did  not  apparently  occur  to 
him  that  she  had  done  anything  blameworthy. 
This  magnanimity  touched  her,  as  did  also 
his  manifest  contrition.  Her  heart  began  to 
soften. 

"  Yes,"  he  resumed,  "  I  am  glad  he  didn't 
see  it ;  but  I  am  just  so  much  the  sorrier  that 
you  did.  I  have  made  a  bad  impression  on 
you,  Miss  Hopkinson,"  he  said  solemnly. 

She  made  no  reply,  but  her  eyes  danced 
mischievously. 

"  I  have  just  had  an  awful  quarrel  about  it 
with  Miss  Van,"  he  went  on  ruefully.  "  I 
seem  to  have  put  my  foot  in  it  all  around." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  have  quarreled 
with  her." 

"  Neither  do  I  exactly ;  but  I  have.  But  the 
worst  of  it  is  that  you  are  down  on  me,  too,  be 
cause  I  called  you  an  old  maid." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I'm  furious,"  she  laughed. 

"Well,  now,  how  was  I  to  know?  Where 
has  Charlie  been  hiding  you  away  all  .these 
years  ?  Why  didn't  he  ever  have  you  down  to 
class-days  and  things?  The  idea  of  a  man's 
chum  having  such  a  pret — having  a  sister,  you 
know,  and  never  saying  anything  about  it  ! 
From  all  he  ever  said,  you  might  be  a  hundred 
and  thirty-five  years  old." 

"  Then  you  ought  to  have  respected  me  all 
the  more." 

"  Oh,  yes,  so  I  should.  Reverence  for  your 
gray  hairs,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  You  ought 


io6          A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

to  write  Charlie's  sermons  for  him.  Come,  now, 
Miss  Hopkinson,  you  know  that  if  you  really 
were  an  old  maid  I  wouldn't  care  so  much  for 
your  opinion — as  Miss  Van  Shuyster  twitted 
me  with  doing  just  now." 

"  Say  no  more  about  it,  Mr.  Merriman.  I 
forgive  you  the  '  old  maid.'  It  didn't  matter 
anyway." 

"  But  it  matters  to  me  that  you  shouldn't 
form  an  opinion  of  me  from  that  letter.  The 
fact  is  that  when  I  wrote  it  I  was  fresh  from  a 
talk  with  my  cynical  friend  Willett,  who  always 
puts  me  into  the  mood  for  saying  all  sorts  of 
reckless  things  that  I  don't  mean  in  the  least." 

"  Willett?"  murmured  Miss  Hopkinson. 

"  Yes ;  if  you  knew  Barnaby  WiRett — Mephis- 
topheles  Willett,  we  call  him — and  could  hear 
him  talk  for  half  an  hour,  you  would  under 
stand  my  frame  of  mind  when  I  dashed  off  that 
confounded  note.  In  fact,  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
his  advice,  I  should  have  cut  this  appointment 
anyway  and  followed  my  impulse  to  go  up  to 
Chuckatuck.  I  wish  I  had  !  " 

"  Mr.  Barnaby  Willett!  Did  he  advise  you 
not  to  go  to  Chuckatuck?  I  wonder  why." 
Her  eyes  had  suddenly  grown  big  and  round, 
and  her  whole  attitude  expressed  a  newly 
aroused  interest. 

"  What  ?     You  don't  know  Willett,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  answered,  with  a  little  laugh 
and  a  little  blush,"  very  well  indeed.  Mr.  Wil 
lett  and  I  are  — I  am  engaged  to  be  married  to 
Mr.  Willett."  And  she  looked  him  straight  in 


A    COMEDY  OF  ERltOXS.          107 

the  face,  while  her  blush  gradually  deepened, 
until  it  forced  her  to  cast  down  her  eyes  in  be 
witching  confusion. 

Merriman  felt  the  ground  give  way  from 
under  his  feet.  His  jaw  dropped  and  his  eyes 
goggled  wildly.  At  last  he  laughed  aloud. 
"  So  this  is  all  a  put-up  job  on  me ! "  he  ex 
claimed. 

"  '  A  put-up  job  ?  '  I  don't  quite  know  what 
that  means.  But  if  you  mean  there  has  been 
a  conspiracy  against  you — no,  there  hasn't.  I 
never  knew  till  this  minute  that  you  and  Mr. 
Willett  were  acquainted.  And  I  am  sure  he  has 
never  told  me  a  word  about  you  or  about  your 
coming  up  to  Chuckatuck." 

"  Well,  the  whole  thing  is  simply  enough  to 
make  a  man  luny,"  said  Merriman.  "  I  talked 
half  an  hour  to  Willett  about  you  and  Charlie, 
and  he  never  let  on,  by  word  or  look,  that  he 
had  ever  heard  of  either  of  you  before.  And 
he  made  all  manner  of  fun  of  country  parsons, 
etc.,  and  advised  me  by  all  means  to  take  up 
the  Van  Shuysters'  bid  and  give  Chuckatuck 
the  go-by.  What  was  his  game  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,"  suggested  Mr.  Willett 's  fiancte, 
"  perhaps  he  was  a  little  bit — jealous." 

"  I  only  wish  he  had  reason  to  be,"  rejoined 
Merriman  galantly.  "  But  I  see  that  you  are 
laughing  at  me  again,  Miss  Hopkinson.  Well, 
I  must  get  away  into  the  dark  somewhere  by 
myself  and  think  out  this  muddle.  Just  time 
to  catch  my  train,"  he  added,  looking  at  his 
watch.  "  But  if  you  are  writing  to  Willett, 


io8          A    COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

you  had  better  advise  him  to  keep  out  of  my 
sight  for  a  few  days.  If  he  should  cross  my 
war-path  while  I'm  in  my  present  state  of 
mind,  I  won't  answer  for  the  consequences. 
Good-evening,  Miss  Hopkinson,  and — oh,  yes, 
I  had  nearly  forgotten — Ich  gratuliere." 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Merriman,"  she  said, 
extending  her  hand,  and,  as  he  took  it,  she 
continued,  "  You  must  promise  me  to  make 
up  your  quarrel  with  Hattie.  I  shall  explain 
things  to  her,  and  you  must  call  on  her  as 
soon  as  they  get  back  to  town.  Won't  you, 
now  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  will ;  and  I'm  much  obliged  for 
your  intercession.  She's  too  good  a  girl  to 
have  a  fight  with." 

"  And,  Mr.  Merriman,  I  expect  to  be  in  New 
York  this  spring,  and  should  be  very  glad  if 
you  would  call  on  me,  too.  Charlie  will  let 
you  know  where  I  am,  or  Mr.  Willett." 

Merriman's  face  flushed  with  pleasure. 
"  Thank  you  again.  I  certainly  shall.  And, 
till  then,  good-by." 

"  Good-by,"  she  answered,  and  added  softly, 
"till  then." 

"  Till  then— till  then,"  he  repeated  to  himself 
as  the  train  bore  him  rapidly  through  the  night 
between  the  river  bank  and  the  echoing  rocks. 
44  How  do  those  lines  of  Arnold's  go  ?  '  Till 
then  '— 

"  Till  then  her  lovely  eyes  maintain 
Their  gay,  unwavering,  deep  disdain." 


IV. 
DECLARATION  OF  INDEPENDENCE. 


DECLARATION  OF  INDEPENDENCE. 

A  Fourth  of  July  Story. 

',HE  haymakers  at  work  in  my  uncle's 
side-hill  meadows  had  an  original 
way  of  telling  the  noon.  They  were 
not  the  owners  of  watches,  and  the 
church  clock  was  hidden  behind  the  elms,  over 
the  tallest  of  which  the  top  of  the  white  spire, 
with  its  lazy  vane,  could  barely  be  seen.  Just 
at  present,  too,  that  sacred  time-piece  was 
suffering  its  semi-annual  repairs  at  the  hands 
of  the  deliberate  Mr.  Harriman,  the  village 
regulator.  No  :  our  chronometer  in  the  hay- 
field  was  a  simple  but  admirable  combination 
of  horse  and  hickory-tree.  Old  Charley,  mane- 
less  and  all  but  tailless,  long  since  turned  out 
to  grass,  used  to  take  refuge  from  the  sun 
under  the  shade  of  this  hickory,  which  stood  in 
the  pasture  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  Here  he 
would  remain,  with  his  nose  to  the  trunk, 
switching  the  flies  that  settled  on  his  ribs,  and, 
as  the  shadow  wheeled  slowly  in  a  shortening 
radius  through  the  hours  of  the  forenoon, 
Charley  turned  with  it  like  a  kind  of  revolving 
sun-dial,  with  his  nose  for  a  pivot.  At  noon 
the  shadow  thrown  by  the  sparse  foliage  of  the 


H2  DECLARATION   OF 

hickory  was  reduced  to  a  round  spot  on  the 
pasture,  leaving  large  portions  of  Charley 
exposed  to  the  sun.  Then  with  an  impatient 
whinny,  the  old  horse  would  start  for  the 
shelter  of  the  red  barn  across  the  field,  and 
thereupon  the  haymakers,  hanging  their 
scythes  over  the  fence-rail  and  wiping  the 
sweat  from  their  foreheads,  would  get  ready 
to  take  their  nooning. 

I  was  then  estate  twelve — just  the  meridian 
of  the  errand-running  age — and  so,  when 
Charley  made  for  the  barn,  I  would  make  for 
the  spring  where  the  lunch  was  kept,  treading 
as  far  as  I  could  on  the  line  of  the  windrows, 
my  bare  feet  shrinking  over  the  interme 
diate  stubble.  The  spring  was  under  the 
hill,  walled  up  with  stones  and  shaded  by  a 
large  chestnut-tree.  The  meadow  thereabout 
was  spongy,  and  a  good  place  to  find  fringed 
gentians  in  October.  A  basket  of  bread  and 
cold  meat  reposed  in  the  shadow,  and  in  the 
spring  itself  bobbed  about  some  dozen  stone 
bottles  filled  with  cider.  These  bottles,  when 
emptied,  became  convenient  prisons  for  the 
little  garter-snakes  which  the  haymakers  used 
to  catch  in  the  long  grass.  Many  are  the 
bottled  snakes  which  Cousin  Bob  and  I  have 
carried  up  from  the  field  and  let  loose  among 
the  indignant  poultry  in  the  hen-yard. 

On  this  particular  day  I  had  taken  from  the 
cellar  some  of  the  best  russet  cider — interiore 
nota — from  behind  the  big  cistern.  Each  bot 
tle  had  two  raisins  in  it  to  assist  fermentation, 


INDEPENDENCE.  1 1 3 

and  had  been  laid  on  its  side  after  being  filled, 
to  keep  the  cork  wet.  The  selection  of  this 
choice  deposit  was  a  bit  of  hero-worship  on  my 
part :  the  hay-field  was  to  be  honored  by  a  dis 
tinguished  guest— no  less  than  Cousin  Bob 
himself,  who  had  come  all  the  way  from 
Philadelphia  to  be  present  at  his  sister  Kate's 
wedding. 

"  It  was  so  kind  of  you,  Bob,"  said  poor 
Kate,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  to  come  a  whole 
week  beforehand  and  leave  all  your  patients." 

"Awful  rough  on  the  patients,"  answered 
Bob,  kissing  her  in  the  front  hall:  "patients 
under  a  monument  by  the  time  I  get  back,  I 
guess  ;  and  'twouldn't  make  a  very  large  ceme 
tery  either." 

That  was  the  evening  before.  Inside  the 
house  the  family  were  surrounding  Bob  in  a 
joyful  group.  Outside  stood  the  red  stage, 
brilliant  in  the  light  that  streamed  from  the 
parlor  windows.  The  driver  was  struggling  up 
the  walk  with  Bob's  trunk,  and  I  was  dancing 
wildly  about  under  a  chaos  of  valises,  dusters', 
and  fishing-rods.  A  stage-arrival  was  always 
an  excitement  :  the  arrival  of  Bob  was  some 
thing  to  banish  sleep  for  hours.  In  the  watches 
of  the  night  I  longed  for  the  morrow  and  for 
Bob's  cheeiy  voice  shouting,  "  Shorty,  how's 
'  Old  Smoke  '  ?  Suppose  you  get  some  grease, 
and  we'll  go  at  the  barrel."  Or  else,  "Bad 
hay-weather,  Charley  ;  looks  good  for  pickerel. 
Suppose  you  get  out  the  scoop,  and  we'll  try 
the  Pound  Brook  for  live  bait  right  away  after 


H4  DECLARATION  OF 

grub."  And  in  the  morning  I  awoke  to  the 
thought,  "  Bob's  come  !  He's  in  the  next  room. 
There  goes  his  guitar  now." 

I  jumped  out  of  bed,  and  dressed  like  a 
minute-man  of  the  Revolutionary  War  or  a 
freshman  who  hears  the  last  strokes  of  the 
prayer-bell.  I  really  believe  that  Kate's  wed 
ding  seemed  chiefly  important  to  me  because  it 
brought  old  Bob  home  for  a  fortnight. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Bob,  as  I  knocked  at  his 
door.  He  was  seated  superbly  on  the  edge  of  his 
bed,  clothed  upon  with  his  nightshirt  as  with  the 
toga  of  old  Rome,  strumming  an  accompani 
ment  on  his  guitar  and  singing  "  Rocked  in  the 
Cradle  of  the  Deep."  His  generous  bass  bore 
out  the  song's  suggestion  of  winds  and  waves 
and  "the  wet,  blown  face  of  the  sea."  His 
deep  chest-notes  breathed  for  me  the  quintes 
sence  of  all  manliness,  and  even  the  faces  which 
he  had  to  make  when  he  gave  them  utterance 
were  of  heroic  cast— like  the  tragic  masks  of 
the  Greek  actors.  "  How  you  was,  old  parcl  ?  " 
inquired  Bob,  unstringing  a  peg  in  the  guitar. 
"  Do  I  smell  the  breakfast  in  the  air,  or  dooz 
my  eyes  deceive  my  earsight  ?  " 

"I  guess  it's  the  waffles,"  I  responded. 
"  We're  going  to  have  some."  As  for  Bob's 
delightful  slang,  his  "  daliaunce  and  fair  Ian- 
gage,"  I  never  could  answer  that  except  by 
gleeful  and  appreciative  laughter. 

A  noise  was  heard  below,  as  of  a  bell  fiercely 
wielded  but  impeded  in  its  vibrations  by  some 
wooden  obstacle.  It  was  produced  by  my 


INDEPENDENCE.  * 1 5 

uncle  who,  in  his  matutinal  energy,  sought  to 
reinforce  the  action  of  the  bell  by  rapping  it 
against  the  balusters  as  he  rang  it. 
we  heard  his  voice  thereunto  calling,  "  Come, 
get  up!     Get  up!     Breakfast!     Get  up  ! ' 

"Ah,  bella-horrida  bella!"  said  Bob. 
«  There's  the  governor  again.  Been  at  it  since 
cock-crow.  Now,  I  suppose  my  landlady,  with 
the  usual  foresight  of  her  sex,  has  packed  my 
collars  and  cuffs  at  the  bottom  of  that  trunk. 
Here,  Charley,  lend  a  hand  :  put  those  things 
on  the  bed." '  And  he  handed  out  in  succession 
half  a  dozen  pairs  of  boots,  a  pile  of  shirts,  a  box 
of  cigars,  a  medicine-chest,  a  powder-flask,  a 
dress-suit,  and  two  or  three  human  bones. 
«  Put  those  on  top-Ossa  on  Pelion.  Begun 
Latin  yet,  Charley  ?  " 

•«  Not  yet  "  I  answered  ;  "  but  I  m  going  to 
in  the   fall.     Jim  Cassidy  said  I'd  better.     He 
-says  the  classical  always  lick  the  Englishes  at 
foot-ball.     I'm  going  into  Classical  Four, 
is  in  Classical  Three  now." 

••  Look  out  for  that  box.  That  s  something 
for  Katy."  And,  after  a  pause,  "Charley,  is 
George  Spencer  in  town  ?  " 

«  Yes  he  is.  He  came  last  week.  Kennedy 
says  he'  caught  a  four-pound  bass  in  the  pond 
Friday;  right  over  by  the  Point.  That  s  a 
bully  place  for  bass,  Kennedy  says.  He  got 
three  there  all  in  an  hour,"  etc.,  etc. 
'  After  breakfast,  Bob  lighted  a  cigar  and 
stood  with  Kate  out  on  the  piazza,  with  his  arm 
round  her  waist. 


n6  DECLARATION  OF 

"  How  you  do  smell  of  tobacco,  Bob  !  "  said 
his  sister. 

"  I  suppose,  now,  Ketchum  doesn't  smoke 
any  ?  "  suggested  he. 

"  Smoking  !  "  exclaimed  my  uncle,  coming  to 
the  door  and  sniffing.  "  Smoking's  a  foolish 
and  expensive  habit.  Never  smoked  in  my 
life.  Never  used  tobacco  in  any  form."  And 
he  vanished  within.  We  could  hear  him  as  he 
went  through  the  house  and  left  all  the  doors 
open  behind  him,  and  we  laughed. 

"  Charley,"  said  Bob,  "  never  smoke.  Be 
virtuous,  and  you'll  be  happy. 

'  I'll  never    smoke  tobacco,   no.      It    is    a    filthy 

weed. 

I'll  never  smoke  tobacco,  no,'  says  little  Robert 
Reed. 

Bless  you,  my  child,  bless  you  !  " 

"  Now,  Bob,  how  can  you  make  fun  of  pa  in 
that  disrespectful  way  ?  And,  besides,  you  are 
just  encouraging  Charley  to  learn  the  habit 
when  he  gets  older  ;  and  you  know  father  wants 
him  not  to." 

Katy  had  been  a  little  nervous  and  petulant 
of  late.  Bob  made  no  reply,  but  puffed 
reflectively. 

"Jim  Cassidy  smokes  catalpas,"  I  volun 
teered;  "and  he  isn't  but  six  months  older 
than  me ;  and  he  said  his  father  saw  him  smok 
ing  one  the  other  day,  and  he  just  laughed." 

"  Frightful   levity   in  a  parent ! "  said   Bob. 


INDEPENDENCE.  1 1 7 

"Aren't  you  looking  a  little  thin,  Katy  ?  "  he 
went  on,  squeezing  her  waist  a  bit. 

"  I  don't  know  but  I  am,"  answered  Katy 
listlessly.  My  cousin  was  a  tall  girl  and  very 
pretty.  She  had  rosy  cheeks  and  gray  eyes,  and 
a  large,  sweet  mouth. 

"  By  the  way,"  continued  Bob,  a  little  awk 
wardly,  "  Charley  says  that  George  Spencer  has 
come  home." 

Kate  said  nothing  in  response. 

"  Charley  !  "  I  heard  my  aunt's  voice  calling 
to  me  from  the  back  yard. 

"  Yes,  in  a  minute,"  I  shouted.  "  Cousin  Bob, 
I've  got  to  go  down  to  the  hay-field  now  and 
take  the  lunch.  You're  coming  down  by  and 
by,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Any  cider  left  ?  " 

"  Yes,  some  bully — russet  cider." 

"Well,"  said  Bob,  "  I'll  come  down  about 
noon." 

"  All  right.  They're  mowing  the  heater  lot 
to-day."  And  I  started  around  the  house. 

Accordingly,  when  the  old  horse  struck 
twelve  in  the  manner  which  I  have  described, 
and  just  as  I  was  lifting  the  cider-bottles  from  the 
spring  and  the  haymakers  were  gathering  under 
the  apple-tree  in  the  lower  part  of  the  field,  I 
saw  Bob  vault  the  bars  and  come  down  the  hill. 
At  the  same  time  a  buggy  stopped  at  another 
set  of  bars.  It  was  drawn  by  Dick,  successor  to 
Charley,  and  bore  my  uncle  and  Mr.  Ketchum, 
the  gentleman  who  was  to  marry  my  cousin 
Kate.  After  "  hanging  "  the  horse  to  the  post, 


Ii8  DECLARATION  OF 

they  also  came  down  through  the  meadow,  and 
we  all  met  at  the  spring.  Bob  and  Mr. 
Ketchum  shook  hands. 

"  How  are  you,  Ketchum  ?  My  congratula 
tions." 

"  Thank  you,  doctor,  thank  you.  Kate  said 
you  were  coming  on  the  stage  last  night,  and 
you  must  excuse  me  for  not  having  been  at  the 
house  to  meet  you.  I  had  some  important 
business  at  the  Farms.  I'm  trying  to  get  my 
business  all  done  up  this  week.  Business  before 
pleasure,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  of  course  ;  don't  mention  it.  Did  you 
drive  down  with  the  governor  ?  " 

"  With —        I  beg  your  pardon." 

"  With  my  father.  Of  course  you  did,  though. 
I  saw  you  get  out. "  Bob  laughed  constrainedly, 
and  turned  to  shake  hands  with  his  old  friends 
among  the  men,  who  had  seated  themselves  at 
a  respectful  distance  and  were  waiting  for  their 
lunch. 

My  uncle  was  a  smooth-shaved,  stoutish  man, 
with  a  face  of  a  uniform  red  color.  He  carried 
a  rough  apple-tree  stick.  He  stood  with  great 
emphasis  on  the  ground  (/its  ground),  with  jaw 
dropped  and  eyes  asquint  in  the  sun,  regarding 
the  mowing-machine,  which  came  clicking  up 
through  its  last  swath  and  stopped  at  some  dis 
tance  off.  "Grass  in  that  holler  pretty  thin, 
ain't  it  ?  "  he  shouted  to  the  driver. 

"  Wai,  'tis  kind  o'  light.  There's  a  piece  in 
the  middle  you'll  have  to  cut  with  the  scythes, 
I  guess." 


INDEPENDENCE.  1 1 9 

"Cut  it  with  scythes?  What's  that  for? 
Don't  want  any  peckin'  round  with  scythes. 
Men  got  enough  to  do  along  the  fences." 

"  \Val,  I  can't  go  in  there  with  the  machine. 
It's  too  rough.  Scratch  it  all  to  thunder — 
Whoa,  there !  " 

"  Rough  !     What  makes  it  rough  ?  " 

11  Stuns  makes  it  rough." 

'•'  Stones  !  Stones  in  there  ?  That's  some  of 
McFadden's  shiftless  work.  I  told  him  to  get 
'em  all  out  last  fall  and  pile  'em  on  the  wall. 
Gave  him  gunpowder  to  blast  'em  with." 

"  Wai,  squire,  guess  he  used  your  gunpow 
der  up  shootin'  woodchucks,  then.  He  left 
an  almighty  pile  of  stuns  in  that  holler, 
anyway." 

This  conversation  wras  carried  on  in  a  shout. 
Then  the  mowing-machine  started  up  its  click 
and  went  off  across  the  meadow.  My  uncle's 
little  blue  eyes  continued  to  squint  in  a 
mechanical  way  over  the  landscape.  Suddenly 
they  settled  on  me  in  the  immediate  foreground  : 
_  "  Halloo  !  shoo-shoo  !  Where's  your  boots  ? 
i  Mustn't  go  barefoot.  Dirty  trick !  Mustn't  go 
barefoot.  Get  your  feet  cut :  get  the  lock 
jaw." 

I  retired  slowly  toward  the  red  barn,  where 
my  shoes  and  stockings  were  stowed  away  on 
a  beam,  and  as  I  went  I  ruminated.  My  uncle 
seldom  interfered  in  my  education.  He  left 
that  to  the  women,  /.  e.,  to  Aunt  Sophia  and 
Cousin  Kate.  His  attentions  to  me  were 
usually  confined  to  sudden  warnings  about  the 


120  DECLARATION  OF 

danger  of  walking  on  the  picket-fence  or  climb 
ing  the  barn  roof.  "  Hi  !  hi !  "  he  would  shout 
from  some  coign  of  vantage — the  wood-shed 
door,  for  instance — "  mustn't  fool  round  the 
horse.  Get  kicked."  He  often  gave  me  six 
pences  and  asked  me  if  I  should  like  to  be  a 
lawyer  when  I  grew  up.  Only  on  one  occasion 
had  he  taken  my  education  directly  in  hand, 
and  that  was  when  it  had  suddenly  occurred  to 
him  that  my  aesthetic  culture  was  being 
neglected.  "  Don't  play  on  any  musical  instru 
ment,  do  you  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  I  used  to  play 
the  fife  myself  when  I  was  a  boy.  Don't  read 
any  poetry,  do  you  ?  Come  into  the  office,  and 
I'll  give  you  a  copy  of '  Hudibras.'  Got  four 
or  five." 

A  single  anecdote  will  illustrate  sufficiently 
my  uncle's  fitness  to  guide  unassthetic  youth 
into  the  higher  realms  of  imagination,  and  will 
show  how  much  sympathy  he  was  likely  to  have 
with  the  sentimental  grievances  of  those  under 
his  control.  Cousin  Bob— who  fancied  himself 
something  of  a  connoisseur  in  painting — had 
picked  up,  at  a  dealer's  in  Philadelphia,  some 
half-dozen  little  oils  which  he  affirmed  rather 
vaguely  to  be  "  originals."  They  represented 
various  saints  and  martyrs  of  all  degrees  of 
maceration.  They  were  visible  only  in  a  strong 
light,  the  background  and  the  raiment  of  the 
holy  men  having  seemingly  been  reduced  by 
smoke  to  a  uniform  blackness,  against  which 
stood  out  here  and  there  a  leaden  face  or  a 
sallow  and  emaciated  leg.  These  cheerful 


INDEPENDENCE.  121 

effigies  Bob  brought  out  of  his  trunk  when 
home  on  a  visit,  and,  after  having  explained 
their  points  to  Aunt  Sophia,  who  put  full  faith 
in  them,  and  to  Kate,  who  laughed  at  them,  he 
hung  them — without  frames — on  the  walls  of 
his  room,  where  they  remained  after  his  de 
parture.  Bob's  room  was  over  my  uncle's 
office.  It  was  a  sacred  apartment,  always 
reserved  for  him  and  retaining  a  faint  odor  of 
tobacco-smoke.  The  mantelpiece  was  littered 
with  glorious  vestigia  of  its  occupant,  such  as 
old  pipes,  sword-belts,  rusty  fishing-reels,  and 
surgical  instruments,  which  were  never  dis 
turbed.  I  sometimes  penetrated  to  the  seclu 
sion  of  this  chamber,  inhaled  its  subtle  aroma, 
so  suggestive  of  dear  old  absent  Bob,  and 
gazed  upon  the  ghostly  presences  which  be 
decked  the  walls.  These,  as  originals,  inspired 
me  with  a  mysterious  respect,  and  not  for  the 
kingdoms  of  this  earth  would  I  have  dreamed 
of  laying  sacrilegious  hands  on  them.  But  one 
day — oh,  my  prophetic  soul  !  my  uncle  ! — my 
uncle,  I  say,  had  brought  a  house-painter  on 
the  premises.  After  he  had  painted  the  well- 
curb,  the  fence  in  the  front  yard,  the  red 
benches  in  the  back  stoop,  the  green  shutters 
of  the  milk-room,  etc.,  my  uncle,  ransacking 
the  house  with  his  accustomed  energy  in  search 
of  further  objects  needing  repair,  lighted  on 
Bob's  saints.  "  Here,"  he  shouted  to  the 
painter  from  the  top  of  the  office  staircase, 
"  here  !  come  up  here  !  Suppose  you  touch  up 
these  picters.  Give  'em  a  coat  or  two  apiece  \ 


122  DECLARATION  OF 

make  'em  look  pretty  :  faded  out  so  you  can't 
see  what  they  look  like." 

I  had  followed  uncle,— having  made  friends 
with  the  painter,  who  conversed  affably  with 
me  while  he  plied  his  brush  all  the  forenoon, — 
and  I  now  stood  rigid  with  horror,  regarding 
alternately  the  red  face  of  this  avuncular  Vandal 
and  the  parchment  visages  of  his  intended  vic 
tims.  "But,  uncle,"  I  faltered,  "  Bob  used  to 
say  that  the  dark  colors  were  all  the  beauty  of 
these  paintings." 

"  Don't  want  any  beauty  of  'em  here.  Dingy 
old  things !  Touch  'em  up  a  bit.  Brighten 
'em  up,  so  folks  can  see  what  they  are.  When 
you  get  through,  come  down  into  the  office  and 
I'll  pay  you." 

Then  did  that  smearer  of  barns,  without  a 
misgiving, — nay,  even  with  a  simple  faith  in  the 
resources  of  his  art  which  begat  in  me  a  kind 
of  confidence, — proceed  to  adorn  Bob's  originals 
with  fresh  garments.  To  the  mantle  of  one  he 
imparted  a  brave  vermilion,  using  the  very 
pigment  with  which  he  had  daubed  the  benches 
in  the  stoop.  The  girdle  which  bound  the 
withered  loins  of  a  dying  eremite  was  painted  a 
living  green — the  green  of  the  milk-room 
shutters.  Only  a  doubt  as  to  the  precise  nature 
of  the  aureole  which  encircled  the  head  of  one 
glorified  martyr  saved  that  mystic  circle  from  a 
coat  of  the  best  brown  paint.  And,  finally, 
each  leathery  cheek  received,  exactly  at  its 
centre,  a  hectic  bloom  of  the  shape  and  diameter 
of  the  old-fashioned  copper  cent.  And  then 


INDEPENDENCE.  I23 

the  artist,  having  surveyed  his  work  with  honest 
pride,  picked  up  his  paint-pots  and  descended 
into  the  office  to  receive  his  ill-gotten  gains.  I 
rushed  at  once  to  my  cousin  Kate  and  dragged 
her  to  the  scene.  She  laughed  till  her  pretty 
eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and  sank  gasping  into 
a  chair.  The  comments  of  Bob  on  his  next 
visit  home  were  brief  flut  emphatic.  The 
restored  originals  disappeared  forever. 

Well,  I  had  put  on  my  shoes  and  stockings 
and  returned  to  the  spring  just  as  Bob  was 
opening  the  first  bottle  of  cider,  when  a  man 
was  seen  coming  up  the  hill  with  a  gun  over  his 
shoulder  and  a  game-bag  slung  under  his  arm. 
•'Halloa!"  cried  Bob,  looking  up,  "there 
comes  George  Spencer.  What  has  he  been 
after  ?  Woodcock  ?  To-day  is  the  ist  of  July, 
that's  a  fact,  and  the  law  is  off."  Spencer 
bowed  as  he  passed  us,  a  few  rods  away,  and 
was  going  on  up  the  hill,  when  Bob  sung  out, 
"  O  George  !  You  aren't  going  to  give  me  the 
go-by,  are  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  doctor,  how  are  you  ?  "  responded 
Spencer,  stopping  suddenly  and  approaching 
us.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you  home;  indeed  I 
am." 

He  shook  hands  warmly  with  Bob,  and 
bowed  stiffly  to  Mr.  Ketchum  and  my  uncle, 
the  latter  of  whom  simply  glared  at  him  in 
return  and  then  faced  about  and  fixed  his  eye 
on  some  distant  point  in  the  valley.  The  new 
comer  was  a  tall,  boyish  looking  young  man, 
with  a  careless,  not  to  say  slouching,  gait,  but 


124  DECLARATION  OF 

graceful  withal,  and  having  a  merry  blue  eye 
with  just  a  bit  of  the  devil  in  it,  and  an  expres 
sion  of  face  as  of  one  who  took  the  world 
perhaps  too  easily.! 

"  Any  sport  ? "  asked  Bob,  pointing  to  the 
game-pouch. 

"  These,"  answered  Spencer,  taking  out 
some  half-dozen  small  bodies,  mostly  feathers 
and  bill ;  "  the  spoils  of  the  chase,"  he  added 
with  a  laugh. 

"  Oh,  golly  !  "  I  began,  fired  with  the  preda 
tory  instinct  and  regardless  of  possible  snubs, 
"  you  ought  to  see  the  bag  Dave  Brown  had, 
day  before  yesterday,  coming  out  of  Parson's 
cover.  Sixteen  woodcock  and " 

"  Look  out,  Charley,"  broke  in  my  cousin : 
"  don't  be  giving  Dave  away.  Mr.  Ketchum  is 
in  the  legislature,  you  know,  and  has  to  look 
out  for  the  game-laws." 

"  Day  before  yesterday  was  Sunday,"  said 
the  law-maker  in  question,  with  an  accent  of 
disapproval. 

"  That's  it,"  said  I.  "  Dave  Brown  says 
Sundays  don't  count  in  law.  He  says " 

"  Charley  !  "  shouted  my  uncle,  "  here  ! 
Take  this  basket  clown  to  the  men,  and  ask  'em 
if  they  have  got  enough  cider." 

Spencer  glanced  up  with  a  look  half  of  annoy 
ance  and  half  of  amusement.  His  face  flushed 
slightly,  and  he  dropped  the  birds  back  into 
the  pouch,  and  saying,  "  Well,  I  must  be  off," 
turned  and  pursued  his  way  over  the  field  just 
as  I  was  moving  reluctantly  off  on  my  errand. 


INDEPENDENCE.  125 

It  was  not  so  much  what  my  uncle  had  said, 
but  the  tone  in  which  he  said  it  implied 
that  he  didn't  want  me  in  Spencer's  company. 
I  hurried  back  to  the  spring  in  time  to  hear 
him  say,  "  I  thought  that  fellow  was  gone  to 
New  York  for  good — gone  to  be  an  architect, 
or  something." 

"  I  suppose  he  is  taking  a  little  vacation," 
ventured  Bob. 

"  Taking  a  vacation,  hey  ? "  said  my  uncle, 
with  a  snort.  "  Better  stick  to  his  work. 
Young  men  take  too  many  vacations  now 
adays." 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  Mr.  Ketchum,  with  slow 
and  mournful  unction,  "  that  it's  vacation  with 
Spencer  pretty  much  all  the  time.  I'm  afraid 
he  won't  make  architecture  go.  He  is  too 
unstable :  '  unstable  as  water,  he  will  not 
excel,'  as  the  good  book  says.  Now,  I  spoke 
to  him,  before  he  went  to  New  York,  about 
making  the  plans  for  an  extension  we  are 
building  to  the  mill ;  I  wanted  to  give  him  a 
lift ;  but  he  didn't  seem  to  take  any  interest, 
and  my  partners  got  sick  of  waiting  for  him, 
and  gave  the  job  to  another  man.  What  a 
man  wants,  to  succeed  in  business,  is  concentra 
tion.  Spencer  scatters  himself — goes  round 
playing  chess,  and  botanizing,  and  tooting  on  a 
French  horn,  and  all  that  sort  of  fooling.  He 
doesn't  bring  himself  to  a  focus,  like  he 
ought." 

"  He's  a  poor  toad,"  pronounced  my  uncle 
sententiously,  and  with  an  air  as  though  Mr. 


126  DECLARATION  OF 

Ketchum  was  refining  too  curiously  on  a  sub 
ject  unworthy  of  such  metaphysical  analysis. 

Bob  seemed  uncomfortable  under  this  criti 
cism  of  Spencer,  and  it  was  no  less  than  shock 
ing  to  me,  in  whose  system  of  hero-worship 
that  over-versatile  genius  occupied  a  place 
second  only  to  Bob  himself.  Was  not  his 
prowess  with  rod  and  gun  acknowledged  even 
by  Dave  Brown — him,  the  unsabbatical,  the 
scorner  of  statute  law,  the  profane  and  bibulous 
brother  of  the  angle — who  frequently  in  my 
own  hearing  had  borne  testimony  to  George's 
gift,  as  he  sat  and  spat  among  a  crowd  of 
idlers  on  the  stoop  of  the  Eagle  Hotel. 

"  Thar's  the  Hinmans,"  Dave  would  say  : 
"  they  gits  some  trouts,  but  I  kin  beat  them. 
Thar's  Joe  Briggs  :  he's  a  pretty  good  fisher 
man  ;  he  gits  some  trouts,  but  I  can  beat  him. 
Thar's  Willem  Holt— comes  up  from  'York — 
he  thinks  he  knows  how  to  fish.  Wai,  he  gits 
some  trouts.  But  I  kin  beat  the  hull  on  'em 

by !  Me  and  George  Spencer  kin  beat  the 

hull  d n  lot  of  'em  !  " 

It  was  this  Crichton  of  a  Spencer  who  had 
taught  me  how  to  cast  a  fly  and  to  construct  a 
sucker-trap.  He  had  a  canoe  on  the  river,  and 
had  given  me  lessons  in  paddling.  Once  he 
even  lent  me  his  double-barreled  shot-gun — 
under  conditions  of  the  strictest  secrecy  and 
caution  in  handling,  on  my  part.  He  could 
whittle  anything  out  of  wood,  and  he  had  made 
an  elegant  model  in  soap-stone  of  St.  Swithin's 
Church,  which  was  quite  the  gem  of  the  church- 


INDEPENDENCE.  1 2  7 

fair  where  it  was  raffled  for.  He  would  dash 
you  off  pen-and-ink  caricatures  of  all  the  queer 
people  in  the  village.  And  how  often  at  night, 
when  passing  his  mother's  little  white  house, 
had  I  listened  with  rapture  to  the  strains  of 
George's  French  horn,  where  his  lonely  taper 
glimmered  late  among  the  pines  !  And  then, 
too,  what  an  admirable  woman  was  Mrs. 
Spencer,  the  mother,  and  how  toothsome  the 
vergalieu  pears  in  her  side-yard  ! 

But  I  knew,  though  rather  vaguely,  why  my 
uncle  was  down  on  this  hero  of  mine.  I  am 
telling  this  story  ab  extra,  and  solely  from 
recollection  of  what  I  myself  saw  and  heard. 
I  will  not  vouch  for  hearsay  evidence,  and  I 
was  not  of  an  age  when  one  is  usually  taken 
into  family  councils  ;  nor  should  I  have  taken 
much  interest  in  the  sentimental  woes  of  my 
elders,  having  in  especial  a  boy's  contempt  for 
young  women  and  their  love-affairs.  But  thus 
much  I  partly  knew  and  partly  guessed: 
George  Spencer  and  my  cousin  Kate  had  been 
sweethearts,  and  their  passion  had  been 
frowned  on  by  my  uncle,  who,  in  an  angry 
interview  with  the  young  man,  had  spoken 
most  disrespectfully  of  his  "  prospects,"  and 
had  ended  by  forbidding  Kate  to  see  him. 
This  in  itself  might  not  have  been  enough  to 
break  off  the  affair,  for  Kate  was  a  spirited  girl, 
with  a  large  share  of  inherited  obstinacy ;  but 
there  had  followed  some  misunderstanding 
between  the  lovers.  Whether  Kate  thought 
that  George  took  his  dismissal  by  her  father  too 


128  DECLARATION  OF 

proudly  and  kept  away  from  her  in  conse 
quence,  or  whether  he  thought  that  she  took  it 
too  lightly  and  consoled  herself  too  readily  by 
flirtations  with  her  other  admirers,  I  never 
quite  knew.  Kate  certainly  was  a  little  of  a 
coquette,  as  indeed  she  had  a  right  to  be,  being 
the  acknowledged  belle  of  the  village  and 
much  sought  after  by  the  young  men  at  picnics 
and  hops.  Poor  George  took  it  hard  enough. 
I  used  to  meet  him  in  the  dusk,  mooning  fur 
tively  about  the  outskirts  of  our  orchard,  and 
to  wonder  what  he  was  at.  It  has  since  oc 
curred  to  me  that  he  was  watching  the  light  in 
Kate's  window — as  time  out  of  mind  has  been 
lovers'  wont — and  that  the  apple-tree  shadows 
were  to  him  in  lieu  of  those  "  broom  groves 
whose  shade  the  dismissed  bachelor  loves." 

And  once  he  bribed  me  with  the  sum  of 
fifty  cents,  to  me  in  hand  paid,  to  give  him  an 
old  photograph  of  Kate  and  say  nothing  about 
it  to  anyone — a  bargain  which  seemed  to  me 
advantageous  beyond  the  wildest  dreams  of 
"  swaps  "  and  speculations  in  jack-knives  or 
rabbit-coops.  Kate,  too,  moped  badly  at  first. 
She  chose  melancholy  airs  for  her  piano.  She 
had  redness  of  the  eyes — like  the  drunkards  of 
Ephraim  ;  and  I  used  to  find  scraps  of  Byronic 
verse  on  her  writing-table  and  evidently  of  her 
own  composition,  beginning  : 

Oh,  there  are  times  in  life's  dull  dream. 

Alas !  this  was  in  ante-Tennyson  days,  when 
L.  E.  L.  was  still  in  vogue ;  and  Kate  was  not 


INDEPENDENCE.  129 

without  a  strong  dash  of  romance  in  an  other 
wise  very  healthy  and  sensible  temperament. 

After  a  while  she  came  out  of  this  mood  and 
was  quite  gay  again ;  and  finally,  after  a 
desperate  flirtation  with  Mr.  Ketchum,  she 
engaged  herself  to  that  gentleman  with  her 
father's  full  approval — my  aunt  Sophia,  as 
usual,  acquiescent  rather  than  enthusiastic. 
Mr.  Ketchum  was  quite  the  rising  young  man 
of  our  village.  He  had  a  third  share  in  the 
large  cotton-mill  at  Whistleville.  He  was 
of  an  inventive  turn,  and  owned  the  patent 
of  several  agricultural  implements,  which 
brought  him  in  a  very  pretty  plum.  He 
was  our  postmaster,  and  had  represented  the 
town  twice  in  the  State  legislature.  It  was 
mainly  through  his  public-spirited  exertions 
that  the  railroad  extension  to  the  neighboring 
town  of  Whistleville  had  been  procured.  He 
was  Sunday-school  superintendent  and  junior 
warden  of  St.  Swithin's  Church,  of  which  my 
uncle  was  senior  warden.  He  was  reckoned 
rather  a  handsome  man,  too,  with  his  luxuriant 
side-whiskers,  black  eyes,  and  big  red  lips. 
His  manners  were  even  excessive.  If  my  aunt 
Sophia  or  any  lady  entered  the  room  where  he 
was  sitting  in  an  arm-chair,  he  would  rise  and 
insist  upon  her  taking  his  seat.  Once,  when 
he  dined  at  our  house,  I  was  greatly  impressed 
by  the  delicacy  which  he  showed  in  holding 
his  handkerchief  before  his  face,  as  a  screen, 
while  he  picked  his  teeth.  And  yet,  in  spite 
of  these  unquestioned  virtues,  I  knew  that 


13°  DECLARATION  OF 

Bob  was  never  quite  reconciled  to  Mr. 
Ketchum's  engagement  with  Kate.  But  if 
asked  to  name  his  objection,  he  always  put  it 
on  some  absurd  ground  as,  for  instance,  that 
Ketchum  wore  cloth  shoes — which  was  quite 
as  unreasonable  as  Petruchio's  motive  for 
throwing  his  wine-sops  in  the  sexton's  face. 
As  for  cloth  shoes,  Mr.  Ketchum  certainly 
dressed  elegantly,  wearing  a  black  frock  and  a 
tall  hat,  even  on  week-days.  His  affable  pros 
perity  had  never  seemed  in  stronger  contrast 
with  poor  George's  prospectless  condition  than 
now,  while  the  latter,  in  his  faded  brown  coat 
and  seedy  trousers,  was  climbing  slowly  up  the 
hill  toward  the  bars  that  led  out  of  the  meadow 
into  the  Whistleville  turnpike.  His  very  back, 
as  he  walked,  had  a  dispirited  and  almost 
loaferish  expression. 

But  now  the  only  absent  member  of  my 
dramatis  -persona  came  on  the  scene — the 
heroine  herself,  who,  with  a  wide  straw  hat  on 
her  head  and  a  bunch  of  pansies  in  her  belt, 
appeared  on  the  other  side  of  the  bars  just  as 
Spencer  reached  them  from  the  field.  We 
could  see  the  quondam  lover  raise  his  hat  and 
let  down  the  bars  for  her  to  pass.  We  could 
see  Kate  smile  ;  we  could  see  that  they  ex 
changed  a  word  or  two,  as  she  stepped  through 
the  gate  and  came  toward  us  down  the  smooth 
green  slope,  while  he  replaced  the  bars  and 
went  up  the  road.  Only  a  word  or  two,  but  it 
proved  to  be  enough.  Balzac  tells  of  a  quick 
witted  demoiselle  who  could  depecher  une  acco- 


INDEPENDENCE.  13* 

lade  while  mounting  the  staircase  behind  her 
duenna. 

Kate  was  humming  a  tune  as  she  approached 
the  group  by  the  spring.  She  had  a  heightened 
color  and  a  conscious  look  about  the  mouth. 
Her  eyes,  cast  down  demurely,  seemed  looking 
for  some  wild  flower  along  the  shaven  meadow- 
ground. 

"Well,  good-morning,  Miss  Kate,"  began 
Ketchum,  taking  her  by  the  arm  with  an  air  of 
ownership  which  she  seemed  a  little  to  resent. 
"Come  tagging  after  the  men,  have  you? 
Couldn't  keep  away  from  us.  No;  I  thought 
not.  That's  the  way  with  the  ladies  all.  Isn't 
that  so,  doctor  ?  " 

Mr.  Ketchum,  though  a  man  of  business 
habits  and  a  Sunday-school  superintendent, 
was  by  no  means  a  person  of  severe  and  gloomy 
mien.  He  often  said  that,  in  his  view,  religion 
should  be  a  cheerful  and  not  an  ascetic  thing. 
In  his  business  he  found  it  more  profitable  to 
be  "genial"  than  "stuck  up."  Though  not 
"  a  drinking  man,"  as  he  would  explain,  he 
would  take  a  drink  upon  occasion  with  com 
mercial  or  political  acquaintances,  and  would 
himself  insist  upon  "  setting  'em  up  all  round  " 
with  hospitable  iteration  whenever  the  business 
in  hand  required  such  lubricants.  Though 
holding  strict  views  touching  the  observance  of 
the  Sabbath,  he  was,  on  the  whole,  a  progres 
sive  and  liberal  spirit,  and  in  the  famous  con 
tention  in  St.  Swithin's  Church  as  to  the  pro 
priety  of  singing  operatic  selections,  he  held 


13*  DECLARATION'    OP 

with  the  popular  side.  He  was  secretly  adored 
by  the  young  ladies  of  the  choir  and  of  the 
Sunday  school,  who  esteemed  his  air  of  min 
gled  gallantry  and  playfulness  the  perfection  of 
high-bred  wit,  to  be  met  on  their  part  only 
with  applausive  giggles  and  cries  of,  "  Oh,  Mr. 
Ketchum,  do  stop  making  me  laugh  !  You're 
too  funny  !  "  etc.,  etc. 

But  to-day  this  excellent  fooling  was  for 
some  reason  thrown  away  on  Bob,  who  sul 
lenly  declined  response  to  Ketchum's  appeal, 
and  made  as  though  he  heard  it  not,  ransacking 
the  hamper  in  silence  to  find  the  corkscrew. 

"  We  saw  you  talking  with  Spencer  at  the 
fence,"  pursued  the  humorist,  winking  at  the 
unresponsive  Bob.  "  I  guess  I  shall  have  to 
be  looking  after  Spencer.  Come,  now,  tell  us 
what  he  said.  Did  he  promise  to  dance  at  the 
wedding  ?  " 

"  Oh,  fiddlesticks  !  "  said  Kate,  disengaging 
her  arm  and  darting  a  look  expressive  of  rather 
complicated  emotions  at  her  prospective  bride 
groom.  "  I  want  some  lunch.  Is  there  any 
pie,  pa?" 

"No  pie  here.  Don't  want  any  such  flum 
mery  round  here.  Good,  plain  bread  and 
meat,  cider,  boiled  eggs,"  answered  my  uncle, 
with  his  mouth  full  of  the  last-named  item. 

"  Come,  step  up  to  the  counter  and  ask  the 
squire  for  a  glass  of  cider,"  urged  Ketchum. 

"  Cider  goes  to  my  head,"  answered  Kate, 
with  a  pout ;  "  but  I  want  a  sandwich — and, 
Charley,  get  me  a  glass  of  spring  water,  please. 


INDEPENDENCE.  133 

Bob,  you  bad  boy,  what  made  you  run  off  just 
after  breakfast  ?  I've  scarcely  seen  you  yet, 
and  I've  got  lots  of  things  to  talk  to  you 
about." 

"  Fire  away,"  said  Bob,  who  had  found  the 
corkscrew  and  was  opening  a  fresh  bottle. 

"  Well,"  remarked  Mr.  Ketchum,  consulting 
his  watch,  "  time's  up  with  me,  so  I'll  clear  out 
and  give  you  a  chance.  I  know  Kate  has  got 
lots  of  things  to  talk  to  me  about,  too,  but  she's 
too  bashful  to  say  them  before  company.  So 
you'll  have  to  be  patient,  Katy,  and  keep  'em 
till  next  week." 

"  Oh,  go  along  with  you,"  replied  she.  "  I 
haven't  anything  to  say  to  you — not  anything 
at  all." 

One  perceives  that  our  poor  Kate  was  noth 
ing  of  a  Beatrice,  and  had  little  else  at  command 
in  the  shape  of  repartee  than  the  sauciness  of 
any  old-fashioned  Yankee  girl. 

"Well,  good-morning,  Mr.  Craig;  good- 
morning  all.  Ta-ta,  Katy ;  keep  up  your 
spirits,  and  try  to  get  along  without  me  for  a 
while."  And  Mr.  Ketchum  took  himself  off. 

Presently,  Kate  put  her  arm  into  Bob's  and 
strolled  down  into  the  pastures,  leaning  against 
his  shoulder,  talking  and  laughing.  My  uncle 
had  already  started  for  a  distant  corner  of  the 
hay-field,  to  examine  a  fence  that  needed  re 
pairs,  and  thus  the  lunch  party  broke  up. 

The  wedding  was  appointed  for  the  tenth  of 
July.  On  the  evening  of  the  Fourth  there  wfere 
fireworks  on  the  village  green.  Our  house 


134  DECLARATION  OF 

fronted  on  this  center  of  disturbance  and,  as 
soon  as  it  grew  dark,  the  family  and  many 
neighbors  assembled  on  the  piazza,  and  in  the 
yard,  which  was  filled  with  chairs  and  settees, 
prepared  to  witness  what  the  local  press  after 
ward  described  as  a  "  grand  pyrotechnic  dis 
play."  The  scene,  in  sooth,  was  not  without 
its  qualities.  In  the  middle  of  the  green  was 
a  platform  thickly  sown  with  torches,  by  whose 
smoky  glare  an  infuriated  brass  band  per 
formed  discords.  The  Eagle  Hotel  was  bril 
liant  with  candles  in  every  window,  and  its 
stoop  was  crowded  with  the  sturdy  yeomanry 
of  the  vicinage.  Fantastic  lights  and  shadows 
flickered  over  the  turf,  and  a  ring  of  darkness 
shut  in  the  whole,  save  where  a  few  Chinese 
lanterns  twinkled  among  the  trees  of  some 
patriot's  door-yard.  Into  this  outer  blackness 
the  fireworks  cast  momentary  illuminations ; 
and  here,  upon  the  skirts  of  the  village,  the 
boys  lay  in  wait  for  the  dropping  of  the  rocket- 
sticks,  useful  in  the  construction  of  kites.  I 
was  in  those  days  a  keen  hunter  of  the  rocket- 
stick,  and,  though  larger  game  may  since  have 
crossed  my  path,  I  am  ready  to  maintain  that 
there  is  an  excitement  in  that  mystic  nocturnal 
chase  which  nothing  in  later  life  can  quite 
supply.  The  flight  of  a  rocket !  You  wait  in 
the  shadow  with  a  beating  heart,  till  suddenly 
—a  rush— a  scream,  and  the  noble  creature 
sails  heavenward  with  the  deliberate  grace  of  a 
serpent  or  an  eagle,  hovers  an  instant  above  the 
world  in  a  column  of  dissolving  fire,  and  then 


INDEPENDENCE.  1 3  5 

a  soft  explosion,  and  a  few  lambent  stars,  crim 
son  and  green  and  violet,  come  dropping  earth 
ward  through  the  summer  night ;  and  away  we 
go  after  them,  plunging  into  the  dark,  with 
eyes  fixed  on  the  course  of  the  meteors  and 
ears  straining  for  the  thud  of  the  sticks  as 
they  hit  the  ground.  Sometimes  they  fall 
on  a  roof,  sometimes  in  a  pond — and  then  I 
have  known  the  entire  hunt  to  leap  in  after 
them,  clothes  and  all,  in  the  heat  of  the 
chase. 

On  this  particular  evening  I  had  been  unlucky, 
and  had  secured  only  one  short  stick.  I  was 
posted  alone  in  a  field  north  of  the  green,  near 
the  Whistleville  pike,  and  most  of  the  rockets 
had  taken  a  different  direction.  For  half  an 
hour  there  had  been  nothing  put  off  but  blue- 
lights,  pin-wheels,  and  such  small  deer.  I  had 
begun  to  despair  of  further  prey,  and  had  just 
made  up  my  mind  to  strike  out  for  home  and 
claim  my  share  of  the  lemonade  and  sponge 
cake  which  I  knew  that  Hannah  was  to  dis 
tribute  among  the  spectators  in  our  front  yard, 
when— -f-r-s-h  /—the  blackness  overhead  was 
cleft  as  by  an  arrow  of  flame.  The  head  burst 
just  above  me,  and  the  sticks  descended  toward 
the  north  side  of  the  field. 

"  By  the  mighty,  I've  got  'em  !  "  I  chortled 
in  my  joy,  and  started  across  the  field  on  a  run. 
Farther  yet— farther !  They'll  drop  beyond  the 
fence,  perhaps  in  the  road,  perhaps  in  the  next 
lot.  And,  indeed,  just  as  I  reached  the  fence 
the  sticks  fell.  They  struck  the  top  of  a  carriage 


*36  DECLARATION  OF 

that  was  driving  along  the  road,  and  frightened 
the  horses  so  that  they  reared  and  plunged. 
The  night  was  dark,  but  I  could  see  the  figure 
of  a  man  standing  at  the  horses'  heads,  and  I 
heard  from  the  carriage  a  woman's  voice — a 
voice  that  I  knew— saying,  in  a  low,  agitated 
tone,  "  Oh,  George,  what  was  it  ?  Take  me 
back !  please  take  me  back  !  I  wish  I  hadn't 
come." 

And  then  I  heard  the  man — whose  voice  I 
recognized  also — answer  soothingly,  "  It's  noth 
ing,  darling :  nothing  but  one  of  those  cursed 
rocket-sticks,  that  startled  the  horses  a  bit. 
But  they  are  all  quiet  now.  They're  perfectly 
gentle.  Don't  be  afraid,  dear.  Keep  hold  of 
the  reins  a  minute  till  I  jump  in." 

And  in  a  trice  he  was  in  the  carriage,  and 
the  team  was  off  down  the  road  at  full  speed. 
It  had  all  happened  so  quickly  that  I  had  had 
no  time  to  think  what  it  meant.  I  had  even 
forgotten  the  rocket-sticks,  till  the  tramp  of  feet 
and  a  rush  of  boys  across  the  field  recalled  my 
mind  to  the  quarry,  which  had  now  somehow 
lost  its  importance. 

"  Say,  young  feller,"  the  foremost  called  out, 
"did  them  sticks  fall  anywheres  round 
here  ?  " 

"  In  the  road,  somewhere,"  I  answered  indif 
ferently.  And,  leaving  them  to  search  for  them, 
I  hurried  home  and  joined  the  circle  in  the  front 
yard. 

"Where  is  Kate?"  I  whispered,  as  soon  as 
I  had  picked  out  my  aunt  Sophia  from  among 


INDEPENDENCE.  137 

the  mothers  in  Israel  who  were  purring  gently 
in  the  back  seats. 

"  Kate  went  into  the  house  with  a  headache, 
Charley,  some  time  ago.  Perhaps  you  had 
better  go  and  see  how  she  is,  and  ask  her  if  I 
can  do  anything  for  her." 

I  ran  upstairs  and  knocked  at  Kate's  door. 
No  one  answered.  I  opened  the  door.  The 
room  was  empty,  and  the  lamp  burning.  Then 
I  looked  for  Bob,  and  found  him  at  the  front 
gate,  making  himself  agreeable  to  a  local  young 
woman. 

"  Cousin  Bob,"  I  said,  "  come  into  the  house, 
please,  a  moment.  Something  important." 

"  Important !  Been  blowing  your  fingers  off 
with  a  toy  cannon  ?  " 

"No.  Please  come  in.  Really  and  truly 
it's  important.  Come." 

Bob  excused  himself  and  followed  me  into 
the  hall. 

"  Kate  has  run  off,"  I  said  breathlessly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"With  George  Spencer,"  I  added. 

"  Where  ?     When  ?     Who  told  you  so  ?  " 

I  explained  as  rapidly  as  I  could. 

"  Come  into  the  office,"  said  Bob. 

We  found  my  uncle  seated  at  his  desk,  writ 
ing.  The  front  door  was  sternly  closed,  that 
he  might  seem  to  lend  no  countenance  to  the 
fireworks,  which  he  disapproved  of  as  frivolous 
and  dangerous  inventions,  liable  to  set  fire  to 
barns  and  other  property — whereby  plaintiff 
hath  suffered  great  damage. 


I38  DECLARATION  OF 

"  Tell  him  what  you  saw,  Charley,"  said  Bob. 

I  entered  upon  my  narrative,  my  uncle  listen 
ing  with  a  dazed  expression,  and  when  I  had 
finished,  breaking  out  with,  "Hey!  What? 
Kate  in  a  wagon?  Who  with?  Spencer? 
Where  was  she  going  ?  " 

"  Toward  Whistleville." 

"  Whistleville  ?     What  for?" 

I  hesitated,  and  Bob  came  to  my  relief : 
"  Why,  it  is  very  clear,  sir,  I  think,  that  the 
girl  has  run  off." 

"  Run  off  !  Flummery  !  What  would  she 
want  to  run  off  for !  The  boy  has  made  a  mis 
take.  Kate  is  out  looking  at  the  fireworks. 
Saw  her  myself  half  an  hour  ago." 

"  No,"  I  cried  eagerly,  "  Aunt  Sophia  says 
she  went  into  the  house  some  time  ago  with 
a  headache  ;  and  I  Ipoked  in  her  room,  and  she 
wasn't  there." 

"  Then  she  is  just  taking  a  little  drive.  Run 
off!  What  should  make  her  run  off?  Stuff 
and  nonsense  !  "  But  he  rose  from  his  desk 
with  an  anxious  look  and  grasped  the  apple- 
tree  stick  that  stood  in  the  corner  by  his  chair. 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  more  than  that,  sir,"  said 
Bob  gravely.  "  Kate  has  been  acting  queer 
the  last  few  days.  She's  too  good  a  girl  to 
do  anything  in  a  premeditated  way  that  would 
give  us  all  pain.  But,  then,  the  best  girls  have 
romantic  notions,  and  she  may  have  given  way 
all  of  a  sudden.  She  used  to  be  very  fond  of 
Spencer  at  one  time,  you  know ;  and  it  isn't 
likely— is  it?— that  they  would  be  just  taking 


INDEPENDENCE.  1 3  9 

a  drive  all  for  nothing  at  this  hour  of  the 
evening." 

"  The  miserable  hound ! "  shouted  my  uncle, 
suddenly  experiencing  conviction  and  display 
ing  an  equally  sudden  energy.  "  Tell  William 
to  put  Dick  into  the  buggy — quick  !  Charley, 
run  over  to  the  post-office  and  tell  Ketchum  to 
come  right  over  here.  Send  your  aunt  into  the 
office." 

"  Hold  up  a  bit,"  said  Bob.  "  Dick's  no 
good.  We  want  the  fastest  pair  they've  got 
at  the  livery  stable,  and  a  light  wagon. 
Charley,  dust  out  and  order  Scott  to  put  in  the 
best  team  he  has  got.  I'll  follow  you  there  in 
a  minute.  And  if  I  were  you,  sir,  I  wouldn't 
notify  Ketchum  or  say  anything  at  all  to 
mother.  There's  no  use  making  a  scandal, 
and  it  may  be  I  can  overtake  them  before  the 
10.35  train  leaves  Whistleville.  They  must 
be  meaning  to  catch  that.  Time  enough  to 
kick  up  a  bobbery  if  they  get  off." 

"  Do  what  you  like,  Bob,"  answered  his 
father,  sinking  into  his  chair  with  an  air  of 
utter  collapse. 

"Run  ahead,  Charley,"  said  Bob.  "I'll 
take  you  with  me.  You  had  better  stay  in 
the  office,  sir,  till  we  get  back,  and  act  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  I'll  go  up  and  lock 
Kate's  door  and  tell  mother  that  she  is  asleep, 
and  not  to  disturb  her." 

At  this  point  I  left  the  office,  and  cannot 
say  what  further  conversation  passed  between 
father  and  son.  But  when  Bob  joined  me  at 


14°  DECLARATION  OF 

Scott's  stables,  some  fifteen  minutes  later,  he 
reported,  with  a  shake  of  the  head,  that  the 
governor  was  badly  cut  up. 

Our  team  was  a  fast  one,  and  hardly  needed 
the  cut  of  the  whip  that  my  cousin  gave  them 
as  we  turned  into  the  Whistle ville  road.  The 
night  was  dark  and  warm.  The  trees  and 
bushes  went  by  with  a  rush,  and  I  had  such 
a  wild  feeling  of  adventure  that  I  could  scarcely 
keep  from  shouting  aloud  as  Bob  put  the 
ribbons  into  my  hands,  while  he  lighted  a  cigar, 
and  said,  "  Let  'em  spin,  Shorty !  Give  'em 
head.  They've  got  at  least  half  an  hour's 
start,"  he  added,  as  he  resumed  the  reins. 
Beyond  this  we  exchanged  no  words  about 
our  errand,  but  bowled  along  in  silence,  hav 
ing  that  shamefaced  reticence  in  matters  senti 
mental  which  prevails  between  a  man  and 
a  boy.  It  was  five  miles  to  Whistleville.  We 
had  gone  about  half  the  distance,  and  had 
reached  the  top  of  a  bare  hill,  when  Bob 
pulled  up  abruptly.  "  Hark !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  Is  that  the  sound  of  wheels  ahead  ?  " 

We  both  listened  intently. 

"  No,"  I  answered  ;  "  it's  only  the  brook 
down  in  the  hollow." 

"  Pshaw  !     So  it  is,"  said  Bob—"  Get  up  !  " 

But,  at  the  instant  of  starting,  one  of  the 
hind-wheels  rolled  gently  from  its  axle,  the  car 
riage  toppled  over  on  its  side  in  a  leisurely 
manner,  and  I  found  myself  lying  among  the 
sweet-fern  and  huckleberry-bushes  by  the  road 
side.  The  horses  stood  perfectly  still.  There 


IND  EPENDENCE.  1 4 l 

was  a  moment  of  silence,  and  then— "Damn 
everything  !  "  said  Bob,  from  the  ditch.  He 
had  kept  hold  of  the  reins,  and  neither  of  us 
was  hurt,  as  the  carriage,  luckily,  had  no  head 
way  on  and  the  fall  was  soft.  "  Strike  a  match, 
Charley,  and  look  at  my  watch.  I  can't  let  go 
the  reins." 

"  It  is  a  quarter  past  ten/'  I  reported,  after 
some  fumbling. 

"  The  game  is  up,"  said  Bob. 

"  It's  only  two  miles  and  a  quarter,"  I  sug 
gested  ;  "  couldn't  we  hoof  it  ?  " 

"  What !  in  twenty  minutes  ?  Not  much  we 
couldn't.  We  had  just  about  time  enough  to 
make  it  with  the  wagon." 

"We  might  get  another  wagon  from  a 
farmer." 

"  There's  nothing  but  woods  fora  mile  ahead. 
No ;  about  face  !  The  next  time  you  see  your 
cousin  Kate,  young  man,  her  name  will  be  Mrs. 
Spencer." 

We  unhitched  the  sweating  team,  drew  the 
carriage  off  the  road,  and  started  homeward  on 
foot,  Bob  leading  the  horses  and  whistling 
softly  as  he  went.  About  half  a  mile  up  the 
road  we  came  to  a  farmhouse,  where  the  lights 
were  still  burning.  Here  we  got  a  pole,  and, 
putting  in  the  horses,  drove  back  to  the  village. 
It  was  near  midnight  when  we  reached  the 
green,  and  the  Fourth  was  over.  A  smell  of 
gunpowder  still  lingered  in  the  air,  but  the 
houses  were  dark,  except  where  a  few  sleepless 
revelers  kept  wassail  in  the  barroom  of  the 


14-2  DECLARATION  OF 

Eagle  Hotel.  We  left  the  horses  at  the  stable, 
and  went  directly  to  my  uncle's  office,  where 
a  light  was  burning.  Bob  shrank  perceptibly 
from  entering.  There  were  voices  inside,  and, 
as  we  opened  the  door  and  walked  in,  we  found 
Mr.  Ketchum  in  the  act  of  taking  leave.  He 
evidently  knew  nothing  of  what  had  happened, 
for  his  face  wore  its  habitual  look  of  smug  self- 
satisfaction.  My  uncle,  on  the  contrary,  had  an 
expression  of  ill-concealed  nervousness,  which 
deepened  into  alarm  as  his  eye  sought  Bob's 
for  tidings  of  our  success.  Bob  shook  his  head. 
No  one  spoke. 

Mr.  Ketchum  saw  that  something  was  the 
matter.  "Anything  wrong?"  he  inquired, 
looking  from  one  to  the  other.  "Anybody 
sick  ?  " 

"  Sit  down  a  minute,  Ketchum ;  sit  down," 
said  my  poor  uncle.  He  made  one  or  two  efforts 
to  speak,  but  his  voice  shook  so  that  he  could 
hardly  utter  a  word.  Finally,  he  controlled 
himself,  and  began,  "  I  hoped  it  would  turn  out 
a  mistake,  or  that  we  could  stop  it  in  time,  and 
so  I  said  nothing  to  you.  But — but — I  am 
terribly  shocked— terribly  mortified  to  have  to 
tell  you.  My  daughter  has  acted  badly ;  she 
has  disgraced  her  father.  You  can't  feel  worse 
about  it  than  I  do." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  what's  the  matter  ?  "  de 
manded  Ketchum. 

"  Oh,  let's  have  it  out,"  broke  in  Bob,  stepping 
forward.  "  Ketchum,  she  has  run  away  with 
George  Spencer, — this  evening,  while  the  fire- 


INDEPENDENCE.  143 

works  were  going  on.  They  went  to  Whistle- 
ville,  and  I  went  after  them  as  soon  as  we  dis 
covered  it ;  but  the  wagon  broke  down  on  top 
of  Moss'  Hill,— and  so  they've  got  off;  and, 
upon  my  soul,  I'm  sorry  for  it,  and  I  didn't 
think  it  of  Kate.  If  she  wanted  to  break  with 
you,  she  might  have  done  it  fair  and  square. 
This  running  off  in  the  dark  is  a  shabby  busi 
ness.  The  girl  has  treated  you  badly,  Ketchum, 
and  the  family  owes  you  an  apology." 

Bob  held  out  his  hand,  but  Mr.  Ketchum  did 
not  appear  to  notice  it.  His  face  went  white  and 
red  by  starts,  and  the  passions  of  grief,  anger, 
and  shame  chased  each  other  over  his  broad 
cheeks  like  flying  cloud-shadows  across  a 
meadow.  "  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  this  when 
I  came  in  here  to-night  ?  "  he  demanded  at 
length,  facing  my  uncle. 

"  I  thought  Bob  might  catch  the  fools  and 
bring  'em  back  in  time  to  save  this  disgrace 
and  hush  the  thing  up,"  explained  the  run 
away's  parent. 

"  Oh !  And  you  thought  the  girl  was  good 
enough  for  me  anyway,  even  if  she  had  run  off 
with  another  feller." 

"  There  was  time  to  catch  'em ;  there  was 
time  to  stop  it,  before  they  could  get  the  down 
train,  if  the  wagon  hadn't  broke  down.  Mean, 
stinking  wagons  Scott  always  keeps ! "  he 
added,  with  a  parenthetic  rage. 

"  Oh,  the  wagon  broke  down,  did  it  ? " 
sneered  Ketchum,  with  a  black  look  at  Bob. 
"  Yes ;  I've  heard  of  that  kind  of  wagon  before. 


144  DECLARATION  OF 

I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Squire  Craig  ;  I  can 
see  when  a  job  is  put  up  on  me  as  well  as  the 
next  man,  and  I  ain't  going  to  swallow  it  so 
sweet  and  nice." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  sir  ?  "  said  my 
uncle. 

"  I  mean  that  I  may  not  be  a  college-educated 
man  or  belong  to  a  high-toned  family,  but  as 
long  as  you  felt  sure  I  had  the  stamps,  you  was 
glad  enough  to  take  me  all  the  same,  and  so 
was  the  girl.  But  as  soon  as  this  report  about 
the  mill  gets  around,  you  shake  me  quick  as  a 
wink.  And  the  joke  is  on  you,  after  all.  For, 
as  sure  as  I  sit  here,  that  story  about  our 
paper's  being  protested  in  Thimblebury  is  a 
darned  rotten  lie,  and  the  man  that  started  it 
knows  it's  a  darned  lie."  And  he  brought  his 
fist  down  on  the  table  with  an  emphasis  on  the 
expletive  that  lent  it  almost  the  dignity  of  an 
oath,  and  doubtless  gave  its  utterer  a  delightful 
thrill  of  wickedness. 

"  So  help  me  God  ! "  said  my  uncle,  after  a 
pause,  "  I  never  heard  any  report  of  that  kind 
till  this  minute,  and  it  wouldn't  have  made  a 
particle  of  difference  with  me  if  I  had.  I  didn't 
want  your  money,  and  my  daughter  didn't  want 
your  money.  I  favored  the  match  myself  be 
cause  I  thought  you  a  worthy,  industrious  young 
man  of  good  principles  and  steady  habits." 

"  It's  a  put-up  job,"  asserted  Ketchum,  ris 
ing  and  taking  his  hat  from  the  table.  "  I  don't 
say  that  you  are  in  it  yourself,  Mr.  Craig — 
and  I  dare  say  you  aint ;  but  your  daughter  is, 


INDEPENDENCE.  145 

clear  enough,  and  so  is  her  brother.  Well,  I 
wish  you  joy  of  your  son-in-law — a  cuss  with 
out  a  cent,  and  that  don't  know  how  to  make 
a  cent  for  the  life  of  him.  As  for  that  little 
flirt " 

"There,"  broke  in  Bob;  "that'll  do.  Not 
another  word.  I  took  you  for  a  gentleman,  and 
I  made  you  an  apology  accordingly,  which  I  see 
I  didn't  owe  you  ;  but  if  you  say  anything- " 

"  Bob  !  "  interrupted  my  uncle  authorita 
tively.  And,  as  Ketchum  stalked  out  of  the 
office,  he  continued,  "  The  man  has  been  insult 
ing,  but  he  has  a  right  to  feel  hard  toward  us. 
Kate  has  treated  him  shamefully ;  she  has 
treated  the  whole  of  us  shamefully." 

"  Well,"  replied  Bob,  breathing  short,  "  I 
don't  defend  the  way  she  did  it,  but  I'm  glad 
she's  done  it,  after  all.  That  fellow  is  a  cad  to 
the  bottom  of  him.  I  always  thought  so,  and 
now  I  know  it.  Spencer's  a  gentleman,  if  he 
isn't  anything  else." 

"Halloo!"  exclaimed  my  uncle,  recovering 
his  usual  manner  as  his  eye  fell  on  me. 
"What's  the  boy  doing  here?  No  place  for 
boys.  Time  to  be  abed.  Here,— here's  a  dol 
lar  for  your  savings  bank ;  buy  fire-crackers 
next  Fourth.  Off  to  bed  with  you."  And  I 
withdrew. 

Here  is  the  letter  which  my  tearful  Aunt 
Sophia  received  from  Kate  a  day  or  two  later. 
I  found  it  last  week  in  a  bundle  of  yellow 
papers  in  the  little  hair-cloth  trunk  under  the 
garret  stairs.  Eheu  fugaces! 


146  DECLARATION-  OF 

NEW  YORK,  July,  6,  18— . 
MY  DEAR,  DEAR  MOTHER  :  Will  you  ever  for 
give  me  ?  You  must,  for  I  am  so  happy.  I  know 
that  I  have  done  very,  very  wrong,  but  George 
was  so  impetuous.  He  had  a  presentiment  that,  un 
less  I  went  with  him  that  night,  we  never  should  be 
married.  You  know  what  a  strong  will  father  has, 
and  I  did  not  dare  to  face  the  scene  that  would  have 
taken  place  if  I  had  broken  off  my  engagement 
with  Mr.  Ketchum  in  the  usual  way.  Poor  Mr. 
Ketchum  !  I  have  treated  him  very  badly,  and  I  did 
like  him — in  a  way.  But,  mother,  I  found  that  I 
could  not  marry  him.  He  was  too  vulgar.  Only 
think  !  I  discovered  that  he  had  bought  a  book 
called  '  Etiquette  and  Eloquence  ;  or,  The  Perfect 
Gentleman,'  telling  about  how  to  behave  in  com 
pany,  etc. ;  and  he  used  to  learn  little  speeches  out 
of  it  and  say  them  to  me  when  he  called.  Please  all 
of  you  forgive  me,  and  write  to  me  at  No.  137 
Blank  Street,  where  we  are  boarding.  George  has 
a  good  situation  with  his  uncle,  who  is  an  architect 
and  is  going  to  take  him  into  partnership  some  day. 
I  wish  you  could  see  how  happy  I  am. 

Ever  your  own  loving  daughter, 

CATHERINE  C.  SPENCER. 

P.  S. — We  were  married  that  evening  at  Whistle- 
ville,  by  Rev.  Dr.  Quickly,  in  ten  minutes.  We 
have  heard  of  poor  Bob's  accident  with  the  wagon. 
Dear  Bob  !  how  I  love  him  !  Ask  him  to  pardon 
us  for  it. 

It  is  needless  to  add  that  everyone  came 
round  in  time, — even  my  uncle,  who  held  out 
manfully  for  several  months.  Even  Mr. 


INDEPENDENCE.  147 

Ketchum,  if  he  did  not  forgive,  at  least  forgot 
so  far  as  to  marry  a  rich  young  woman  of 
Thimblebury,  with  whom  he  subsequently 
moved  to  that  flourishing  burg  and  to  higher 
spheres  of  usefulness  in  business  life. 


2 


V. 
SPLIT  ZEPHYR, 


V. 

SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

An  attenuated  yarn  spun  by  the  Fates. 

T  was  the  evening  of  Commencement 
Day.  The  old  Church  on  the  green, 
which  had  rung  for  many  consecutive 
hours  with  the  eloquence  of  slim 
young  gentlemen  in  evening  dress,  exhorting 
the  Scholar  in  Politics  or  denouncing  the  Gross 
Materialism  of  the  Age,  was  at  last  empty  and 
still.  As  it  drew  the  dewy  shadows  softly 
about  its  eaves  and  filled  its  rasped  interior  with 
soothing  darkness,  it  bore  a  whimsical  likeness 
to  some  aged  horse  which,  having  been  pestered 
all  day  with  flies,  was  now  feeding  in  peace 
along  the  dim  pasture. 

It  was  Clay  who  suggested  this  resemblance, 
and  we  all  laughed  appreciatively,  as  we  used 
to  do  in  those  days  at  Clay's  clever  sayings. 
There  were  five  of  us  strolling  down  the  diago 
nal  walk  to  our  farewell  supper  at  "  Ambrose's." 
Arrived  at  that  refectory,  we  found  it  bare  of 
guests  and  had  things  quite  to  ourselves.  After 
supper,  we  took  our  coffee  out  in  the  little  court 
yard,  where  a  fountain  dribbled,  and  the  flutter 
of  the  grape  leaves  on  the  trellises  in  the  night 
wind  invited  to  confidences. 


IS2  SPLIT  ZEPHYR, 

11  Well,  Armstrong,"  began  Doddridge, 
"where  are  you  going  to  spend  the  vacation  ?  " 

"Vacation!"  answered  Armstrong;  "vaca 
tions  are  over  for  me." 

"  You're  not  going  to  work  for  your  living  at 
once?  "  inquired  Berkeley. 

"  I'm  going  to  work  to-morrow,"  replied 
Armstrong  emphatically  ;  "I'm  going  down  to 
New  York  to  enter  a  law  office." 

"  I  thought  you  had  some  notion  of  staying 
here  and  taking  a  course  of  graduate  study." 

"  No,  sir  !  The  sooner  a  man  gets  into  har 
ness,  the  better,  I've  wasted  enough  time  in 
the  last  four  years.  The  longer  a  man  loafs 
around  in  this  old  place,  under  pretense  of  read 
ing  and  that  kind  of  thing,  the  harder  it  is  for 
him  to  take  hold." 

Armstrong  was  a  rosy  little  man,  with  yellow 
hair  and  light  eyes.  His  expression  was  one  of 
irresolute  good  nature.  His  temper  was  san 
guine  and  expansive,  and  he  had  been  noted  in 
college  for  anything  but  concentration  of  pur 
suit.  He  was  gregarious  in  his  habits,  suscep 
tible  and  subject  to  sudden  enthusiasms.  His 
good  nature  made  him  a  victim  to  all  the  bores 
and  idlers  in  the  class,  and  his  room  became  a 
favorite  resort  for  men  on  their  way  to  recita 
tion,  being  on  the  ground  floor  and  near  the  lec 
ture  rooms.  They  would  drop  it  about  half  an 
hour  before  the  bell  rang,  and  make  up  a  little 
game  of  "  penny  ante  "  around  Armstrong's  cen 
ter  table.  In  these  diversions  he  seldom  took 
part,  as  he  had  given  it  out  publicly  that  he  was 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  153 

"  studying  for  a  stand  ";  but  his  abstinence  from 
the  game  in  no  wise  damped  the  spirits  of  his 
guests.  Occasionally  his  presence  would  re 
ceive  the  notice  of  the  company  somewhat  as 
follows  : 

No.  i.  "  Make  less  noise,  fellows;  Charley  is 
digging  out  tnat  Puckle  lesson." 

No.  2.  "  You  go  into  the  bedroom,  Charley, 
and  shut  the  door,  and  then  you  won't  be 
bothered  by  the  racket." 

No.  3.  "  Oh,  hang  the  Puckle  !  Come  and 
take  a  hand,  Charley.  We'll  let  you  in  this  pool 
without  an  ante." 

No.  4.  "  Why  don't  you  get  a  new  pack  of 
cards,  Charley  ?  It's  a  disgrace  to  you  to  keep 
such  a  dirty  lot  of  old  pasteboards  for  your 
friends." 

In  face  of  which  abuse,  Armstrong  was  as 
helpless  as  Telemachus  under  the  visitation  of 
the  suitors.  The  resolute  air  with  which  he 
now  declared  his  intention  of  grappling  with  life 
had  therefore  something  comic  about  it,  and 
Berkeley  said,  rather  incredulously  : 

"  I  suppose  you'll  keep  up  your  reading  along 
with  your  law  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  the  other  ;  "  Themis  is  a  jeal 
ous  mistress.  No;  I'm  going  to  bone  right 
down  to  it." 

"  Haven't  you  changed  your  ideal  of  life 
lately  ?  "  asked  Clay  a  little  scornfully, 

"  Perhaps  I  have,"  said  Armstrong  ;  "  per 
haps  I've  had  to." 

"  What  is  your  ideal  of  life  ?  "  I  inquired. 


154  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you/'  he  answered,  draining 
his  coffee  cup  solemnly,  and  putting  it  down 
with  the  manner  of  a  man  who  has  made  up 
his  mind.  The  rest  of  us  arranged  ourselves  in 
attitudes  of  attention.  "  My  ideal  is  independ 
ence,"  began  Armstrong.  •'  I  want  to  live  my 
own  life  ;  and  as  the  first  condition  of  independ 
ence  is  money,  I'm  going  for  money.  Culture 
and  taste,  and  all  that,  are  well  enough  when  a 
man  can  afford  it,  but  for  a  poor  man  it  means 
just  so  many  additional  wants  which  he  can't 
gratify.  My  father  is  an  educated  man ;  a 
country  minister  with  a  small  salary  and  a  large 
family  ;  and  his  education,  instead  of  being  a 
blessing,  has  been  an  actual  curse  to  him.  He 
has  pined  for  all  sorts  of  things  which  he 
couldn't  have — books,  engravings,  foreign  travel, 
leisure  for  study,  nice  people,  and  nice  things 
about  him.  I've  made  up  my  mind  that,  what 
ever  else  I  may  be,  I  won't  be  poor,  and  I  won't 
be  a  minister,  and  I  won't  have  a  wife  and 
brats  hanging  to  me.  I  tell  you  that,  next  to 
ill  health,  poverty  is  the  worst  thing  that  can 
happen  to  a  man.  All  the  sentimental  griev 
ances  that  are  represented  in  novels  and  poetry 
as  the  deepest  of  human  afflictions, — disap 
pointed  ambitions,  death  of  friends,  loss  of 
faith,  estrangements,  having  your  girl  go  back 
on  you, — they  don't  signify  very  long  if  a  man 
has  sound  health  and  a  full  purse.  The  min 
isters  and  novel  writers  and  fellows  that  preach 
the  sentimental  view  of  life  don't  believe  it 
themselves.  It's  a  kind  of  professional  or 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  155 

literary  quackery  with  them.  Just  let  them  feel 
the  pinch  of  poverty,  and  then  offer  them  a 
higher  salary  or  a  chance  to  make  a  little '  sordid 
gain  '  in  some  way,  and  see  how  quick  they'll 
accept  the  call  to  '  a  higher  sphere  of  usefulness.' 
Berk,  hand  over  a  match,  will  you  ;  this  cigar 
has  gone  out." 

"  Loud  cries  of  '  We  will— we  will ' ! "  said 
Berkeley.  "But  can  it  be?  Has  the  poick 
turned  cynic,-  and  the  sickly  sentimentalist  be 
come  a  materialist  and  a  misogynist  ?  " 

(Armstrong  was  our  class  poet,  and  had 
worried  the  official  muse  on  Presentation  Day 
to  the  utterance  of  some  four  hundred  lines 
filled  with  allusions  to  Alma  Mater,  Friend 
ship's  Altar,  the  Elms  of  Yale,  etc.  His  piece 
on  that  occasion  had  been  "  pronounced,  by  a 
well  known  literary  gentleman  who  was  pres 
ent,  equal  to  the  finest  productions  of  our  own 
Willis.") 

"  I'll  bet  the  cigars,"  said  Doddridge,  "that 
Armstrong  marries  the  first  girl  he  sees  in  New 
York." 

"Yes,"  said  Clay,  "his  boarding-house 
keeper's  daughter." 

"And  has  a  dozen  children  before  he  is 
forty,"  added  Berkeley  ;  "  a  dozen  kids,  and  all 
of  them  girls.  Charley  is  sure  to  be  a  begetter 
of  wenches." 

"  And  writes  birthday  odes  '  To  My  Infant 
Daughter  '  for  the  Home  Journal,  "  continued 
Clay. 

"No,  no,"  said   the  victim  of   this   banter, 


156  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

shaking  his  head  solemnly.  "  I  shall  give  no 
hostages  to  fortune.  I  mean  to  live  snug  and 
carry  as  little  sail  as  possible  :  to  leave  only  the 
narrowest  margin  out  for  Fate  to  tread  on. 
The  man  who  has  the  fewest  exposed  points 
leads,  on  the  whole,  the  happiest  life.  How  can 
a  man  enjoy  himself  freely  when  a  piece  of  de 
fective  plumbing,  the  bursting  of  a  toy  pistol, 
the  carelessness  of  a  nurse,  may  plunge  him 
into  a  lifelong  sorrow  ?  I  don't  say  it's  a  very 
noble  life  that  I  propose  to  myself,  but  it's  a 
safe  one.  I'm  too  nervous  and  anxious  to  stand 
the  responsibilities  of  matrimony." 

"  If  you  can't  stand  responsibility,"  said 
Doddridge,  "  I  don't  see  why  you  choose  the 
law  for  a  profession.  You  don't  seem  to  me 
cut  out  for  a  lawyer  anyway.  I  always 
thought  you  meant  to  be  some  kind  of  a 
literary  chap." 

"  Yes,"  said  Berkeley,  "  why  don't  you  go  for 
a  snug  berth  under  the  government,  or  study 
for  a  tutorship  here  ?  That's  the  life  that  would 
suit  you,  old  man." 

"  Not  at  all,"  answered  Armstrong  ;  "  I  have 
a  horror  of  any  salaried  position,  or  of  any  posi 
tion  where  a  man  is  obliged  to  conform  his 
habits  and  opinions  to  other  people's.  It  is 
the  worst  sort  of  dependence.  Now  a  lawyer 
in  successful  practice,  and  especially  if  he  is  a 
bachelor,  is  about  as  independent  as  a  man  can 
be.  His  relations  with  his  clients  are  merely 
professional,  and  what  he  does  or  thinks  pri 
vately  is  nobody's  business." 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  157 

"  If  you  are  going-  to  be  a  mere  lawyer," 
asked  Clay,  "  what  becomes  of  your  education 
and  your  intellectual  satisfactions  ?  " 

"A  man  can  get  his  best  intellectual  satisfac 
tions  out  of  the  work  of  his  profession,"  an 
swered  Armstrong.  "  Besides,  as  to  that, 
there's  time  enough.  Fifteen  years  of  solid 
work  will  enable  one  to  put  by  a  fair  compe 
tence,  if  he  lives  carefully  and  has  no  one  but 
himself  to  support ;  and  then  he  will  be  free  to 
take  up  a  hobby.  Oh,  I  shall  cultivate  a  hobby 
or  two  after  a  while.  It  keeps  the  mind  healthy 
to  have  some  interest  of  the  kind  outside  of  one's 
business.  I  may  take  to  book-collecting  or 
numismatics  or  raising  orchids.  Perhaps  I  may 
become  an  authority  on  ancient  armor ;  time 
enough  for  that  by  and  by.  And  then  I  can 
cut  over  to  Europe  every  summer  if  I  like,  and 
no  one  to  interfere  with  my  down-sittings  or  up 
risings,  my  goings-out  or  my  comings-in.  Do 
you  know,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause,  "  how  I 
always  look  to  myself  in  the  glass  of  the  future  ? 
I  figure  myself  like  old  Tulkinghorn,  in  '  Bleak 
House,' — going  down  into  his  reverberating 
vaults  for  a  bottle  of  choice  vintage,  after  the 
work  of  the  day,  and  then  sitting  quietly  in  the 
twilight  in  his  dusky,  old-fashioned  law  cham 
bers,  sipping  his  wine  while  the  room  fills  with 
the  fragrance  of  southern  grapes.  The  gay  old 
silver-top !  " 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  minutes  after 
Armstrong  had  finished  his  declaration.  It  was 
broken  by  Berkeley,  who  had  risen,  and  was 


158  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

walking  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  fountain 
with  his  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets. 

"You  couldn't  lead  that  sort  of  life  if  you 
tried,"  he  said  ;  "  you  aren't  built  for  it." 

"  Don't  you  make  any  mistake,"  rejoined  the 
other  ;  "  it's  the  sort  of  life  I'm  going  to  live." 

"  It's  a  cowardly  life,"  retorted  Berkeley. 

"  Did  I  say  it  wasn't  ?  I  said  it  was  safe. 
You  can  call  it  what  you  like." 

"  Well,"  replied  Berkeley,  reseating  himself 
again,  "  my  ideal  career  is  just  the  opposite  of 
that.  " 

"  Suppose  you  explain  yours,  then,"  said 
Armstrong. 

Berkeley  hesitated  a  few  moments  before  be 
ginning.  He  was  a  lean,  tallish  fellow,  with  a 
Scotch  cast  of  countenance,  a  small  blue  eye, 
high  cheek  bones,  a  freckled  skin,  and  whity- 
brown  hair.  He  had  a  dry,  cautious  humor, 
fed  by  much  out  of  the  way  reading.  He  had 
been  distinguished  in  college  by  methodical 
habits,  a  want  of  ambition,  a  disposition  to  keep 
to  himself,  and  a  mixture  of  selfishness  and 
bonhomie  which  made  him  a  fold  friend  but  an 
agreeable  companion.  It  was  therefore  with 
some  surprise  that  we  heard  him  deliver  himself 
as  follows  : 

"  I  believe  that  the  greatest  mistake  a  man 
can  make  is  in  not  getting  enough  out  of  life. 
I  want  to  lead  a  full  life,  to  have  a  wide  ex 
perience,  to  develop  my  whole  nature  to  the 
utmost,  to  touch  mankind  at  the  largest 
possible  number  of  points.  I  want  adventure, 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  159 

change,  excitement,  emotion,  suffering  even 
— 1  don't  care  what,  so  long  as  it  is  not  stag 
nation.  Just  consider  what  there  is  on  this 
planet  to  be  seen,  learned,  enjoyed,  and  what  a 
miserably  small  share  of  it  most  people  appro 
priate.  Why,  there  are  men  in  my  village  who 
have  never  been  outside  the  county  and  seldom 
out  of  the  township  ;  who  have  never  heard  a 
word  of  any  language  but  English  ;  never  seen 
a  city  or  a  mountain  or  the  ocean  —  or,  indeed, 
any  body  of  water  bigger  than  Fresh  Pond  or 
the  Hogganum  River  ;  never  been  in  a  theater, 
steamboat,  library,  or  Cathedral.  Cathedral ! 
Their  conception  of  a  church  is  limited  to  the 
white  wooden  meeting-house  at  '  the  center.' 
Their  art-gallery  is  the  wagon  of  a  traveling 
photographer.  Their  metropolitan  hotel  is  the 
stoop  and  barroom  of  the  '  Uncas  House.' 
Their  university  is  the  unpainted  schoolhouse 
on  the  hill.  Their  literature  is  the  weekly  news 
paper  from  the  county  town.  But  take  the 
majority  of  educated  men  even.  What  a  rusty, 
small  kind  of  existence  they  lead  !  They  are  in 
a  rut,  just  the  same  as  the  others,  only  the  rut 
is  a  trifle  wider.  If  I  had  my  way  I  would 
never  do  the  same  work  or  talk  with  the  same 
people  —  hardly  live  in  the  same  place  for  two 
days  running.  Life  is  too  short  to  do  a  thing 
twice.  When  I  come  to  the  end  of  mine  I  don't 
want  to  say  fai  manque  la  vie  ;  but  make  my 
brag,  with  the  Wife  of  Bath  : 

"  '  Unto  this  day  it  doth  myn  herte  bote 
That  I  have  had  my  world  as  in  my  time.'" 


J6o  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

"  Well,  how  are  you  going  to  do  all  those 
fine  things  ?  "  inquired  Armstrong.  "  For  in 
stance,  that  about  not  living  in  one  place  two 
days  running.  I'm  afraid  you'll  find  that  in 
convenient,  not  to  say  expensive." 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  take  me  too  literally.  I  may 
have  to  travel  on  foot  or  take  a  steerage  pas 
sage,  but  I  shall  keep  going  all  the  same.  I 
haven't  made  any  definite  plans  yet.  I  shall 
probably  strike  for  something  in  the  diplomatic 
line— secretary  of  legation,  or  some  small  con 
sulship  perhaps.  But  the  principle  is  the  main 
thing,  and  the  principle  is  :  Don't  do  anything 
because  it's  the  nearest  and  easiest  and  most 
obvious  thing  to  do,  but  make  up  your  mind  to 
get  the  best.  Look  at  the  lazy  way  in  which 
men  accept  their  circumstances.  There  is  the 
matter  of  acquaintance,  for  instance — we  let 
chance  determine  it.  We  know  the  men  that 
we  can't  help  knowing — the  ones  in  the  next 
house,  cousins  and  second  cousins,  business 
connections,  etc.  Here  at  college,  now,  we  get 
acquainted  with  the  fellows  at  the  eating  club 
or  in  the  same  society,  or  those  who  happen  to 
sit  next  us  in  the  classroom,  because  their 
names  begin  with  the  same  letter.  That's 
it ;  it's  just  a  sample  of  our  whole  life. 
Our  friendships,  like  everything  else  about 
us,  are  determined  by  the  alphabet.  We  go 
with  the  Z's  because  some  arbitrary  system 
of  classification  has  put  us  among  them, 
instead  of  fighting  our  way  up  to  the 
A's,  where  we  naturally  belong.  The  conse- 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  161 

quence  is  that  one's  friends  are  mostly  dreadful 
bores." 

"  I'm  sure  we  are  all  much  obliged  to  you," 
murmured  Clay  parenthetically. 

"  There  are  about  two  or  three  thousand 
people  in  the  world,"  continued  Berkeley,  "  su 
premely  worth  knowing.  Why  shouldn't  / 
know  them  ?  I  will !  Everybody  knows 
two  or  three  thousand  people — mostly  very 
stupid  people — or,  rather,  he  lets  them  know 
him.  Why  shouldn't  he  use  some  choice  in  the 
matter?  Why  not  know  Thackeray  and  Car- 
lyle,  Lord  Palmerston  and  the  Pope,  and  the 
Emperor  of  China  and  all  the  great  statesmen, 
authors,  African  explorers,  military  com 
manders,  artists,  hereditary  nobles,  actresses, 
wits  and  belles  of  the  best  society,  instead  of 
putting  up  with  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry  ?  " 

"  Berkeley,  4  with  whom  the  bell-mouthed 
flask  had  wrought !'"  exclaimed  Clay.  "De 
cidedly,  Berk,  you  should  take  your  coffee 
without  cognac." 

"  Let  me  suggest,"  put  in  Doddridge,  "  that 
some  of  those  parties  you  mentioned  are  not  so 
easy  to  get  introductions  to." 

*'  Oh,  I  say  again,  you  mustn't  take  me  too 
literally.  But  even  the  top  swells  are  easier  to 
know  than  you  think.  All  that  is  wanted  is  a 
little  cheek.  But  take  it  in  a  smaller  way  ;  say 
that  we  resolve  to  cultivate  the  best  society 
within  our  reach.  Doubtless  there  are  numbers 
of  interesting  and  distinguished  people  right 
here  in  New  Haven  whose  acquaintance  it 


1 6  2  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

would  be  worth  while  to  have.  But  how  long 
would  you  beggars  live  here  without  making 
the  least  effort  to  look  them  out,  and  meanwhile 
put  up  with  the  same  old  everyday  bores — like 
me,  or  Polisson  here  ?  And  it's  the  same  way 
with  marriage.  A  fellow  blunders  into  matri 
mony  with  the  first  attractive  girl  that  gives 
him  the  opportunity.  He  knows,  if  he  takes 
the  time  to  think  about  it,  that  there  are  a 
thousand  others  better  than  she,  if  he  will  wait 
and  look  through  the  world  a  little.  'Juxta 
position  in  fine,'  as  Clough  says." 

"  Of  course,  with  such  a  brilliant  destiny 
before  you,  you  II  never  marry,''  said  I. 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  shall.  I  fancy  that  the 
noblest  possibilities  of  life  are  never  realized 
without  marriage.  Yes,  I  can  think  of  nothing 
finer  than  to  have  a  lot  of  manly  boys  and  sweet 
girls  growing  up  around  one.  But  when  I 
marry  it  shall  be  so  as  to  give  completeness  and 
expansion  to  life,  not  narrowness  and  dullness. 
I  shall  never  marry  and  settle  down.  Settle 
down  !  What  a  damnable  expression  that  is ! 
A  man  ought  to  settle  up.  I  mean  to  have  my 
fling  first,  too.  I  should  like  to  gamble  a  bit  at 
Baden-Baden.  I  should  like  to  go  out  to  Colo 
rado  and  have  a  lick  at  mining  speculations.  I 
want  to  rough  it  some  too,  and  see  how  life  is 
lived  close  to  the  bone :  ship  fora  voyage  before 
the  mast ;  enlist  for  a  campaign  or  two  some 
where  and  have  joy  of  battle ;  join  the  gypsies 
or  the  Mormons  or  the  Shakers  for  a  while,  and 
taste  all  the  queerness  of  things.  And  then  I 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  163 

want  to  float  for  another  while  on  the  very  top 
most  crest  of  society.  I  want  to  fight  a  duel 
or  two,  elope  with  a  marquise,  do  a  little  of 
everything  for  the  experience's  sake,  as  a  man 
ought  to  take  opium  once  in  his  life  just  to 
know  how  it  feels." 

Whether  it  was  indeed  the  cognac,  or  only 
the  unusual  excitement  attending  this  outburst 
of  pent-up  fire,  Berkeley's  cheek  had  got  a  flush 
upon  it.  Perhaps,  too,  it  was  owing  to  the  in 
fluences  of  the  day  and  the  hour,  the  splash  of 
the  fountain,  the  rustle  of  the  vine-leaves,  and 
the  wavering  shadows  which  played  about  the 
courtyard  as  the  gas-jets  flickered  in  the  breeze 
of  night,  that  made  his  boastful  words  seem  less 
extravagantly  out  of  character  than  they  other 
wise  would.  The  silence  which  followed  his 
speech  was  broken  by  Clay,  who  sat  with  his 
foot  on  the  rim  of  the  fountain,  balancing  on 
the  hind  legs  of  his  chair,  and  looking  thought 
fully  at  the  slender  jet  as  it  rose  and  fell.  He 
still  wore  the  dress  suit  in  which  he  had  figured 
on  the  Commencement  platform  in  the  after 
noon,  and  which  set  off  the  aristocratic  grace 
of  his  slight  figure.  There  was  a  pale  intellect 
ual  light  in  his  face,  and  his  black  eyes  had  the 
glow  of  genius. 

"  I  think,"  he  began,  "  that  Berkeley  makes  a 
mistake  in  confounding  a  full  life  with  a  rest 
less  one.  I  believe  in  a  full  experience  too,  but 
the  satisfactions  should  be  inward  ones.  Take 
the  matter  of  foreign  travel,  for  one  thing,  on 
which  you  lay  so  much  stress.  It  is  a  great 


1 64  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

stimulus  to  the  imagination,  no  doubt ;  but  then 
foreign  countries  are  accessible  to  the  imagina 
tion  by  other  means — through  books  and  art, 
for  example.  I  think  it  likely  that  the  reality  is, 
quite  as  often  as  not,  disappointing.  Place,  after 
all,  is  indifferent.  '  The  soul  is  its  own  place' ; 
you  can't  get  rid  of  yourself  by  going  abroad, 
and  it's  himself  that  a  man  gets  sooner  tired  of 
than  of  anything  else.  Then  as  to  acquaintances, 
I  don't  know  that  I  should  care  to  know  person 
ally  such  men  as  Thackeray  and  Carlyle,  and 
the  big  composers  and  artists  and  other  people 
that  you  mentioned.  It  might  be  equally  disen 
chanting.  They  put  the  best  of  themselves  into 
their  books,  or  pictures,  or  music.  I  certainly 
would  not  seek  their  society  through  a  formal 
introduction,  at  all  events.  It  is  hard  for  a 
small  man  to  keep  his  self-respect  in  face  of  a 
great  man  when  he  obtains  his  acquaintance  as 
a  special  favor.  If  I  could  meet  some  of  those 
fellows,  quite  naturally  and  accidentally,  on 
equal  terms,  I  might  like  it,  but  not  otherwise. 
But,  leaving  that  point  out  of  account,  I  think 
that  the  career  which  Berkeley  proposes  to  him 
self  would  turn  out  very  hollow.  It  would  re 
sult  in  the  superficial  gratification  of  the  curios 
ity  and  the  senses  ;  and,  as  soon  as  the  novelty 
got  rubbed  off,  what  is  there  left  ?  " 

"So  then,"said  Berkeley,  "you've  swung  into 
line  with  Armstrong,  have  you  ?  You  mean  to 
plod  along  in  some  professional  rut  too.  What 
has  got  into  all  our  idealists  ?  " 

"  Not  by  any  means,"  answered  Clay.     "  Arm- 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  165 

strong  talks  about  independence,  and  yet 
destines  himself  to  the  worst  kind  of  depend 
ence  —  slavery  to  money-getting.  Most  people, 
it  seems  to  me,  spend  the  best  part  of  their  lives 
not  in  living,  but  in  getting  the  means  to  live. 
We'll  give  Armstrong,  say  twenty  years,  to  lay 
up  enough  money  to  retire  on  and  begin  to  live. 
What  sort  of  a  position  will  he  be  in  then  to 
enjoy  his  independence  ?  His  nature  will  have 
got  so  subdued  to  what  it  works  in  that  the 
only  safety  for  him  will  be  to  keep  on  at  the 
law." 

"All  right!  Then  I'll  keep  on,"  interjected 
Armstrong. 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean  to  do  then  ?  " 
asked  Berkeley  of  Clay. 

"I  don't  quite  know  yet,"  replied  the  latter. 
"  I  shall  '  loaf  and  invite  my  soul '  whenever  I 
feel  like  it.  I  shall  live  as  I  go  along,  and  not 
postpone  it  till  I  am  forty.  I  shan't  put  myself 
into  any  mill  that  will  grind  me  just  so  much  a 
day.  I  need  my  leisure  too  badly  for  that.  I 
presume  I  shall  spend  most  of  my  time  at  first 
in  reading  and  walking.  Then,  whenever  I 
think  of  anything  to  write  I  shall  write  it,  and 
if  I  can  sell  what  I  write  to  some  publisher  or 
other  so  much  the  better.  If  not,  go  on  as 
before." 

"Meanwhile,  where  will  your  bread  and 
butter  come  from  ?  "  asked  Armstrong. 

"  Oh,  I  shan't  starve.  I  can  get  some  sort 
of  hack  work — something  that  won't  take  much 
of  my  time,  and  which  I  can  do  with  my  left 


1 66  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

hand.  But  the  great  point,  after  all,  is  to  make 
your  wants  simple ;  to  live  like  an  Arab,  con 
tent  with  a  few  dates  and  a  swallow  from  the 
gourd.  '  Lessen  your  denominator  ;'  it's  easier 
than  raising  your  numerator,  and  the  quotient 
is  the  same." 

"  No,  it's  not  the  same,"  Berkeley  retorted. 
"  Renunciation  and  enjoyment  are  not  the 
same.  It  makes  a  heap  of  difference  whether 
you  have  a  thing  or  simply  do  without  it.  The 
plain  living  and  high  thinking  philosophy  may 
do  for  Clay,  whose  mind  to  him  a  kingdom  is  ; 
but  a  fellow  like  me,  whose  mind  is  only  a  small 
Central  American  republic,  can't  live  on  the 
revenues  of  the  spirit.  The  fact  is,  Clay,  you've 
read  too  much  Emerson.  I  went  into  that 
myself  once,  but  I  soon  found  out  that  it 
wouldn't  wear.  I  want  mine  thicker.  The 
worst  thing  about  the  career  of  a  literary  man 
or  an  artist  is  that,  if  he  fails,  there  are  no  com 
pensations  ;  and  success  is  mighty  uncertain. 
Nobody  doubts  that  you  are  smart  enough,  Clay, 
and  I  am  sure  we  expect  great  things  of  you, 
whatever  line  you  take  up.  But,  for  the  sake 
of  the  argument,  suppose  you  have  grubbed 
along  in  a  small  way,  living  on  crusts  and 
water  till  you  are  fifty,  without  doing  any  really 
good  work.  Then  where  are  you  ?  You  haven't 
had  any  fun.  You've  no  other  string  to  your 
bow.  You  haven't  that  practical  experience  of 
the  world  which  would  enable  you  to  turn  your 
hand  to  something  else.  You  have  no  influence 
or  reputation  ;  for,  of  all  poor  things,  poor  art 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  167 

of  any  kind  is  the  worst— hateful  to  gods  and 
men  and  columns.  In  short,  where  are  you  ? 
You're  out  of  the  dance ;  you  don't  count." 

"Yes,"  added  Armstrong,  "and  you've  no 
professional  success  or  solid  standing  in  the 
community ;  and,  what's  worse,  you've  no. 
money,  which  might  make  up  for  the  want  of 
all  the  rest." 

"  I  don't  think  you  get  my  meaning.  I  may 
fail,"  said  Clay  proudly  ;  "  I  may  never  even  try 
to  succeed,  in  your  sense  of  the  word.  I  de 
cline  all  mean  competitions  and  all  low  views  of 
success.  The  noblest  ideal  of  life— at  least,  the 
noblest  to  me — is  self-culture  in  the  high  mean 
ing  of  the  word  ;  the  harmonious  development 
of  one's  whole  nature.  Armstrong  has  drawn  a 
picture  of  his  future  in  the  likeness  of  old  Tul- 
kinghorn.  I  suppose  we  are  all  accustomed  to 
put  our  anticipations  into  some  such  concrete 
shape  before  our  mind's  eye.  The  typical  situ 
ation  which  I  am  fond  of  imagining  is  some 
thing  like  this  :  I  like  to  fancy  myself  sitting  in 
a  dark  old  upper  room  of  some  remote  farm 
house  at  the  close  of  a  winter  day,  after  three 
or  four  hours  of  steady  reading  or  writing. 
The  room  is  full  of  books— the  best  books. 
There  is  a  little  fire  on  the  hearth,  there  is  a 
dingy  curtain  at  the  window.  It  is  solitary  and 
still,  and  when  the  light  gets  too  scant  to  let 
me  read  any  more,  I  fill  my  pipe  and  go  and 
stand  in  the  window.  Outside,  there  is  a  row 
of  leafless  elms,  and  beyond  that  a  dim  wide 
landscape  of  lakes  and  hills,  and  beyond  that  a 


1 68  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

red,  windy  sunset.  I  can  sit  in  that  window 
and  smoke  my  pipe  and  have  my  own  thoughts 
till  the  hills  grow  black.  There  is  no  one  to 
say  to  me  '  Go  '  or  '  Come  ' ;  no  patient  to  visit ; 
no  confounded  case  on  the  docket  next  morn 
ing  at  nine  ;  no  distasteful,  mean,  slavish  job 
of  any  kind.  How  can  I  fail  to  have  thoughts 
worth  the  thinking,  and  to  live  a  rich  and  free 
life  when  I  breathe  every  day  the  bracing  air 
of  nature  and  the  great  poets?  Isn't  such  a 
life  in  itself  the  best  kind  of  success,  even  if  a 
man  accomplishes  nothing  in  particular  that 
you  can  put  your  hand  on  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Armstrong,  taking  a 
long  breath.  "I  have  felt  that  way,  too.  But 
a  man  has  got  to  put  all  that  sternly  behind 
him  and  do  the  world's  work  for  the  world's 
wages,  if  he  means  to  amount  to  anything. 
It's  only  a  finer  kind  of  self-indulgence,  after 
all — egoistic  hedonism  and  that  sort  of  thing." 

"It  won't  be  all  standing  at  windows  and 
looking  at  sunsets,"  added  Doddridge.  "  Has 
it  ever  occurred  to  you  that,  before  entering  on 
a  life  of  self-denial  and  devotion  to  rather  vague 
ideals,  a  man  ought  to  be  mighty  sure  of  himself  ? 
Can  you  keep  up  the  culture  business  without 
growing  in  on  yourself  unhealthily,  and  then 
getting  -sick  of  inaction  ?  Don't  you  think  there 
will  be  times  of  disappointment  and  doubt,  when 
you  look  around  and  see  fellows  without  half 
your  talents  getting  ahead  of  you  in  the  world  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Clay,  "  I  shall  have  to 
make  sacrifices,  and  I  shall  have  to  stick  to 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  169 

them  when  made.  But  there  have  always  been 
plenty  of  people  willing  to  make  similar  sacri 
fices  for  similar  compensations.  Men  have 
gone  out  into  the  wilderness  or  shut  themselves 
up  in  the  cloister  for  opportunities  of  study 
or  self-communion,  or  for  other  objects  which 
were  perhaps  at  bottom  no  more  truly  devo 
tional  than  mine.  Nowadays  such  opportuni 
ties  may  be  had  by  any  man  who  will  keep  him 
self  free  from  the  servitude  of  a  bread-winning 
profession.  It  is  not  necessary  now  to  cry 
Ecce  in  deserto  or  Ecce  in  penetralibus.  Oh,  I 
shall  have  my  dark  days ;  but  whenever  the 
blue  devils  get  thick  I  shall  take  to  the  woods 
and  return  to  sanity." 

"  You  mean  to  live  in  the  country,  then  ?  "  I 
inquired, 

"Yes  ;  most  of  the  time,  at  any  rate.  Nature 
is  fully  half  of  life  to  me." 

Again  there  was  a  pause. 

"  Well,  you  next,  Polisson,"  said  Armstrong 
finally.  "  Let's  hear  what  your  programme  is." 

"Oh,  nothing  in  the  least  interesting,"  I  re 
plied.  "  My  future  is  all  cut  and  dried.  I  shall 
spend  the  next  two  years  in  the  south  of 
France — mainly  at  Lyons — to  learn  the  details 
of  the  silk  manufacture.  Then  I  shall  come 
home  to  go  into  my  father's  store  for  a  year, 
as  a  clerk  in  the  importing  department.  At 
the  close  of  that  year  the  governor  will  take 
me  in  as  junior  partner,  and  I  shall  marry  my 
second  cousin.  We  shall  live  with  my  parents, 
and  I  am  going  to  be  very  domestic,  though,  as 


170  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

a  matter  of  form,  I  shall  join  one  or  two  clubs. 
I  shall  go  down  town  every  morning  at  nine, 
and  come  up  at  five." 

"  Quite  a  neat  little  destiny,"  said  Armstrong. 
"I  wish  I  had  your  backing.  Come,  Dodd, 
what's  yours  ?  You're  the  only  man  left." 

"  I  haven't  made  up  my  mind  yet,"  said 
Doddridge  slowly. 

He  was  a  large,  spare  man,  with  a  swarthy 
skin,  a  wide  mouth,  a  dark,  steady  eye,  and  a 
long  jaw.  There  was  an  appearance  of  power 
and  will  about  him  which  was  well  borne 
out  by  his  character.  He  had  been  a  system 
atic  though  not  a  laborious  student,  and  while 
maintaining  a  stand  comfortably  near  the 
head  of  the  class,  had  taken  a  course  in  the 
Law  School  during  Senior  year,  doing  his 
double  duties  with  apparent  ease.  He  was  a 
constant  speaker  in  the  debates  of  the  Linonian 
Society,  and  the  few  who  attended  the  meetings 
of  that  moribund  school  of  eloquence  spoke  of 
Doddridge's  speeches  as  oases  in  the  waste 
of  forensic  dispute,  being  always  distinguished 
by  vigor  and  soundness,  though  without  any 
literary  quality,  such  as  Clay's  occasional  per 
formances  had.  Berkeley,  who  covered  his 
own  lazy  and  miscellaneous  reading  with  the 
mask  of  eclecticism,  and  proclaimed  his  dis 
belief  in  a  prescribed  course  of  study,  was  wont 
to  say  that  Doddridge  was  the  only  man  that 
he  knew  who  was  using  the  opportunities 
given  by  the  college  for  all  they  were  worth, 
and  really  getting  out  of  "  the  old  curric  "  that 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  I? I 

mental  discipline  which  it  professed  to  impart. 
Though  rather  taciturn,  he  was  not  unsocial, 
and  was  fond  of  his  pipe  in  the  evening.  He 
liked  a  joke,  especially  if  it  was  of  a  definite 
kind  and  at  some  one's  expense,  touching  some 
characteristic  weakness  of  the  man.  There 
was  at  bottom  something  a  little  hard  about 
him,  though  everyone  agreed  that  he  was  a 
good  fellow.  We  all  felt  sure  that  he  would 
make  a  distinguished  success  in  practical  life ; 
and  we  doubtless  thought — if  we  thought  about 
it  at  all— that,  with  his  clear  foresight  and 
habits  of  steady  work,  he  had  already  decided 
upon  his  career.  His  words  were  therefore  a 
surprise. 

"  What !  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  are 
going  to  drift,  Dodd  ?  "  inquired  Armstrong. 

"  Drift  ?  Well,  no  ;  not  exactly.  I  shall 
keep  my  steering  apparatus  well  in  hand,  but 
I  haven't  decided  yet  what  port  to  run  for. 
There's  no  hurry.  I  have  an  uncle  in  the 
Northwest  in  the  lumber  business  who  would 
give  me  a  chance.  I  may  go  out  there  and 
look  about  a  while  at  first.  If  it  doesn't  promise 
much,  there  is  the  law  to  fall  back  upon.  My 
father  has  a  fruit  farm  at  Byzantium  in  Western 
New  York — where  I  come  from,  you  know — 
and  he  is  part  owner  of  the  Byzantium  weekly 
Bugle.  I've  no  doubt  I  could  get  on  as  editor 
and  go  to  the  legislature.  Or  I  might  do  worse 
than  begin  on  the  farm  ;  farming  is  looking  up 
in  that  section.  I  may  try  several  things  till  I 
find  the  right  one." 


172  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

11  That's  queer,"  said  Armstrong.  "  I  thought 
you  had  made  up  your  mind  to  enter  the 
Columbia  Law  School." 

"  Hardly,"  answered  Doddridge,  "  though  I 
may,  after  all.  The  main  point  is  to  keep  your 
self  in  readiness  for  any  work,  and  take  the  best 
thing  that  turns  up — like  Berkeley  here,"  he 
added  dryly. 

Armstrong  looked  at  his  watch  and  remarked 
that  it  was  nearly  midnight. 

"  Boys,"  said  I,  "  in  fifteen  years  from  to 
night  let's  have  a  supper  here  and  see  how  each 
man  of  us  has  worked  out  his  theory  of  life, 
and  how  he  likes  it  as  far  as  he  has  got." 

"  Oh,  give  us  twenty,"  said  Doddridge,  laugh 
ing,  as  we  all  arose  and  prepared  to  break  up. 
"  No  one  accomplishes  anything  in  this  latitude 
before  he  is  forty." 

It  was  in  effect  just  fifteen  years  from  the 
summer  of  our  graduation  that  I  started  out  to 
look  up  systematically  my  quondam  classmates 
and  compare  notes  with  them.  The  course  of 
my  own  life  had  been  quite  other  than  I  had 
planned.  For  one  thing,  I  had  lived  in  New 
Orleans  and  not  in  New  York,  and  my  occasions 
had  led  me  seldom  to  the  North.  The  first 
visit  I  paid  was  to  Berkeley.  I  had  heard  that 
he  was  still  unmarried,  and  that  he  had  been  for 
years  settled,  as  minister,  over  a  small  Episco 
pal  parish  on  the  Hudson.  The  steamer  landed 
me  one  summer  afternoon  at  a  little  dock  on 
the  west  bank,  and  after  obtaining  from  the 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  173 

dock-keeper  precise  directions  for  finding  the 
parsonage,  I  set  out  on  foot.  After  a  walk  of 
a  mile  along  a  road  skirted  by  handsome  coun 
try  seats,  but  contrasting  strangely  in  its  loneli 
ness  with  the  broad  thoroughfare  of  the  river 
constantly  occupied  by  long  tows  of  barges  and 
rafts,  I  came  to  the  rectory  gate.  The  house 
was  a  stone  cottage,  covered  with  trailers,  and 
standing  well  back  from  the  road.  In  the  same 
inclosure,  surrounded  by  a  grove  of  firs,  was  a 
little  stone  chapel  with  high  pitched  roof  and 
rustic  belfry.  In  front  of  the  house  I  spied  a 
figure  which  I  recognized  as  Berkeley.  He  was 
in  his  shirt  sleeves,  and  was  pecking  away  with 
a  hoe  at  the  gravel  walk,  whistling  meanwhile 
his  old  favorite  "Bonny  Boon."  He  turned  as 
I  came  up  the  driveway,  and  regarded  me  at 
first  without  recognition.  He,  for  his  part,  was 
little  changed  by  time.  There  was  the  same 
tall,  narrow-shouldered,  slightly  stooping  figure , 
the  face,  smooth-shaved,  with  a  spot  of  wintry 
red  in  the  cheek,  and  the  old  humorous  cast  in 
the  small  blue  eyes. 

"  You  don't  know  me  from  Adam,"  I  said, 
pausing  in  front  of  him. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed  directly.  "  Polisson, 
old  man,  upon  my  conscience  I'm  glad  to  see 
you,  but  I  didn't  know  you  till  you  spoke. 
You've  been  having  the  yellow  fever,  haven't 
you  ?  Come  in — come  into  the  house." 

We  passed  in  through  the  porch,  which  was 
covered  with  sweet-pea  vines  trained  on  strings, 
and  entered  the  library,  where  Berkeley  resumed 


174  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

his  coat.  The  room  was  lined  with  book 
shelves  loaded  to  the  ceiling,  while  piles  of  lit 
erature  had  overflowed  the  cases  and  stood 
about  on  the  floor  in  bachelor  freedom.  After 
the  first  greetings  and  inquiries,  Berkeley  carried 
my  valise  upstairs,  and  then  returning,  said  : 

"  I'm  a  methodical  though  not  methodistical 
person,  or  rather  parson  (excuse  the  Fullerisrn)  ; 
and  as  you  have  got  to  stay  with  me  until  I  let 
you  go,  that  is,  several  days  at  the  least  (don't 
interrupt),  I'll  keep  a  little  appointment  for  the 
next  hour,  if  you  will  excuse  me.  A  boy  comes 
three  times  a  week  to  blow  the  bellows  for  my 
organ  practice.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to 
step  into  the  church  and  hear  me." 

I  assented,  and  we  went  out  into  the  yard 
and  found  the  boy  already  waiting  in  the 
church  porch.  Berkeley  and  his  assistant 
climbed  into  the  organ  loft,  while  I  seated 
myself  in  the  chancel  to  listen.  The  instru 
ment  was  small  but  sweet,  and  Berkeley  really 
played  very  well.  The  interior  of  the  little 
church  was  plain  to  bareness  ;  but  the  sun, 
which  had  fallen  low,  threw  red  lights  on  the 
upper  parts  of  the  undecorated  walls,  and  rich 
shadows  darkened  the  lower  half.  Through 
the  white,  pointed  windows  I  saw  the  trem 
bling  branches  of  the  firs.  I  had  been  hurry 
ing  for  a  fortnight  past  over  heated  railways, 
treading  fiery  pavements,  and  lodging  in  red- 
hot  city  hotels.  But  now  the  music  and  the 
day's  decline  filled  me  with  a  sense  of  religious 
calm,  and  for  a  moment  I  envied  Berkeley. 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  175 

After  his  practicing  was  over,  the  organist 
locked  the  chapel  door,  and  we  paced  up  and 
down  in  the  fir  grove  on  the  matting  of  dark 
red  needles,  and  watched  the  river,  whose 
eastern  half  still  shone  in  the  evening  light. 
After  supper  we  sat  out  on  the  piazza,  which 
commanded  a  view  of  the  Hudson.  Berkeley 
opened  a  bottle  of  Chablis,  and  produced  some 
very  old  and  dry  Manilla  cheroots,  and,  leaning 
back  in  our  willow  chairs,  we  proceeded  to 
"  talk  Cosmos." 

"  You  are  very  comfortably  fixed  here,"  I 
began  ;  "  but  this  is  not  precisely  what  I  ex 
pected  to  find  you  doing,  after  your  declaration 
of  principles,  fifteen  years  ago,  you  may  remem 
ber,  on  our  Commencement  night." 

"Fifteen  years!  So  it  is  —  so  it  is,"  he 
answered,  with  a  sigh.  "  Well,  I'homme  pro 
pose,  you  know.  I  don't  quite  remember  what 
it  was  that  I  said  on  that  occasion :  dreadful 
nonsense,  no  doubt.  As  Thackeray  says,  a 
boy  is  an  ass.  Whatever  it  was,  it  proceeded, 
I  suppose,  from  some  temporary  mood  rather 
than  from  any  permanent  conviction,  though, 
to  be  sure,  I  slipped  into  this  way  of  life  almost 
by  accident  at  first.  But,  being  in,  I  have  found 
it  easy  to  continue.  I  am  rather  too  apt,  per 
haps,  to  stay  where  I  am  put.  I  am  a  quietist 
by  constitution."  He  paused,  and  I  waited  for 
him  to  enter  upon  a  fuller  and  more  formal 
apology.  Finally  he  went  on  much  as  follows  : 

"  Just  after  I  left  college  I  made  application 
through  some  parties  at  Washington  for  a  for- 


176  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

eign  consulate.  While  I  was  waiting  for  the 
application  to  be  passed  on  (it  was  finally 
unsuccessful),  I  came  up  here  to  visit  my  uncle, 
who  was  the  rector  of  this  parish.  He  was  a 
widower  without  any  children,  and  the  church 
was  his  hobby.  It  is  a  queer  little  affair,  some 
thing  like  the  old  field-kirks  or  chapels  of  ease 
in  some  parts  of  England.  It  was  built  partly 
by  my  uncle  and  partly  by  a  few  New  York 
families  who  have  country  places  here,  and 
who  use  it  in  the  summer.  This  is  all  glebe 
land,"  he  said,  indicating,  with  a  sweep  of  his 
hand,  the  twilight  fields  below  the  house,  slop 
ing  down  toward  the  faintly  glimmering  river. 
"  My  uncle  had  a  sort  of  prescription  or  lien 
by  courtesy  on  the  place.  There's  not  much 
salary  to  speak  of,  but  he  had  a  nice  plum  of 
his  own,  and  lived  inexpensively.  Well,  that 
first  summer  I  moped  about  here,  got  ac 
quainted  with  the  summer  residents,  read  a 
good  deal  of  the  time,  took  long  walks  into  the 
interior — a  rough,  aboriginal  country,  where 
they  still  talk  Dutch — and  waited  for  an  answer 
to  my  application.  When  it  came  at  last,  I 
fretted  about  it  considerably,  and  was  for  start 
ing  off  in  search  of  something  else.  I  had  an 
idea  of  getting  a  place  as  botanist  on  Coprolite's 
survey  of  the  Nth  parallel,  and  I  wrote  to  New 
Haven  for  letters.  I  thought  it  would  be  a 
good  outdoor,  horseback  sort  of  life,  and  might 
lead  to  something  better.  But  that  fell  through, 
and  meanwhile  the  dominie  kept  saying  :  '  My 
dear  fellow,  don't  be  in  too  much  of  a  hurry  to 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  *77 

begin.  Young  America  goes  so  fast  nowadays 
that  it  is  like  the  dog  in  the  hunting  story— a 
leetle  bit  ahead  of  the  hare.  Why  not  stay  here 
for  a  while  and  ripen — ripen  ?  '  The  dominie 
had  a  good  library — all  my  old  college  favorites, 
old  Burton,  old  Fuller,  and  Browne,  etc.,  and  it 
seemed  the  wisest  course  to  follow  his  advice 
for  the  present.  But  in  the  fall  my  uncle  had 
a  slight  stroke  of  paralysis,  and  really  needed 
my  help  for  a  while  ;  so  that  what  had  been 
a  somewhat  aimless  life,  considered  as  loafing, 
became  all  at  once  a  duty.  At  first  he  had 
a  theological  student,  from  somewhere  across 
the  river,  come  to  stay  in  the  house  and  read 
service  for  him  on  Sundays.  But  he  was  a 
ridiculous  animal,  whose  main  idea  of  a  min 
ister's  duties  was  to  intone  the  responses  in  a 
sonorous  manner.  He  used  to  practice  this  on 
week  days  in  his  surplice,  and  I  remember 
especially  the  cadence  with  which  he  delivered 
the  sentence:  'Yea,  like  a  broken  wall  shall 
ye  be  and  as  a  ruined  hedge.' 

"  He  got  the  huckleberry,  as  we  used  to  say 
in  college,  on  that  particular  text,  and  it  has 
stuck  by  me  ever  since.  The  dominie  fired  him 
out  after  a  fortnight,  and  one  day  said  to  me : 
'Jack,  why  don't  you  study  for  orders  and  take 
up  the  succession  here  ?  You  are  a  bookworm, 
and  the  life  seems  to  be  to  your  liking.'  Of 
course,  I  declined  very  vigorously  in  the  begin 
ning,  though  offering  to  stay  on  so  long  as  the 
dominie  needed  my  help.  I  used  to  do  lay 
reading  on  Sundays  when  he  was  too  feeble. 


178  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

Gradually, '  the  idea  of  the  life  did  sweetly  creep 
into  my  study  of  imagination.'  The  quaint- 
ness  of  the  place  appealed  to  me.  And  here 
was  a  future  all  cut  out  for  me  ;  no  preliminary 
struggle,  no  contact  with  vulgar  people,  no  cut 
throat  competition,  but  everything  gentlemanly 
and  independent  about  it.  I  had  strong  doubts 
touching  my  theology,  and  used  to  discuss 
them  with  my  uncle,  but  he  said — and  said 
rightly,  I  now  think — '  You  young  fellows  in 
college  fancy  that  it's  a  mighty  fine,  bold  thing 
to  affect  radicalism  and  atheism,  and  the  Lord 
knows  what  all ;  but  it  won't  stick  by  you  when 
you  get  older.  Experience  will  soften  your 
heart,  and  you'll  find  after  a  while  that  belief 
and  doubt  are  not  matters  of  the  pure  reason, 
but  of  the  will.  It  is  a  question  of  attitude. 
Besides,  the  church  is  broad  enough  to  cover  a 
good  many  private  differences  in  opinion.  It 
isn't  as  if  you  were  going  to  be  a  blue-nosed 
Presbyterian.  You  can  stay  here  and  make 
your  studies  with  me,  instead  of  going  into  a 
seminary,  and  when  you  are  ready  to  go  before 
the  bishop  I'll  see  that  you  get  the  right  send- 
off.'  In  short,  here  I  am  !  My  uncle  died  two 
years  after,  when  I  was  already  in  orders,  and 
I've  been  here  ever  since." 

"  I  should  think  you  would  get  lonely  some 
times,  and  make  a  strike  for  a  city  parish,"  I 
suggested. 

"  Why — no,  I  don't  think  I  should  care  for 
ordinary  parish  work.  The  beauty  of  my  posi 
tion  here  is  its  uniqueness.  In  winter  I  keep 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  179 

the  church  open  for  the  aborigines  till  they  get 
snowed  up  and  stop  coming,  and  then  I  put 
down  to  New  York  for  about  a  month  or  two 
of  work  at  the  Astor  Library.  Last  winter  I 
held  service  for  two  Sundays  running  with  one 
boy  for  congregation.  Finally  I  announced  to 
him  that  the  church  would  be  closed  until 
spring. 

"  What  jn  the Well,  what  do  you  find  to 

do  all  alone  up  here?  " 

"  Oh,  there's  always  plenty  to  do,  if  you'll 
only  do  it.  I've  been  cultivating  some  virtuosi 
ties,  among  other  things.  Remind  me  to  show 
you  my  etchings  when  we  go  in.  Did  you 
notice,  perhaps,  that  little  head  over  the  table, 
on  the  north  wall  ?  No  ?  Then  I  sinatter 
botany  some.  I'll  let  you  look  over  my  hortus 
siccus  before  you  go.  It  has  some  very  rare 
ferns ;  one  of  them  is  a  new  species,  and  Fos 
ter — who  exchanges  with  me — swore  he  was 
going  to  have  it  named  after  me.  I  sent  the 
first  specimen  to  have  it  described  in  his  forth 
coming  report.  But  doubtless  all  this  sort  of 
thing  is  a  bore  to  you.  Well,  lately  I  have  been 
going  into  genealogy,  and  I  find  it  more  and 
more  absorbing.  Those  piles  of  blank  books 
and  manuscripts  on  the  floor  at  the  south  end 
are  all  crammed  with  genealogical  notes  and 
material." 

"  I  should  think  you  would  find  it  pretty  dry 
fodder,"  I  said. 

"  That  is  because  you  take  an  outside,  un 
sympathetic  view  of  it.  Now,  to  an  amateur  it's 


180  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

anything  but  dry.  There  is  as  much  excitement 
in  hunting  down  a  missing  link  in  a  pedigree 
that  you  have  been  on  the  trail  of  for  a  long 
time,  as  there  is  in  the  chase  of  any  other  kind 
of  game." 

"  Do  you  ever  get  across  the  water  ?  Travel, 
if  I  remember  right,  played  a  large  part  in  your 
scheme  of  life  once." 

"Yes;  I've  been  over  once,  £or  a  few 
months.  But  my  income,  though  very  com 
fortable  for  the  statics  of  existence,  is  rather 
short  for  the  dynamics,  and  so  I  mostly  stay 
at  home." 

"  Did  you  meet  any  interesting  people  over 
there  ?  Any  of  the  crowned  heads,  famous 
wits,  etc.,  whom  you  once  proposed  to  culti 
vate  ?  " 

"  No  ;  nobody  in  particular.  I  went  in  a  very 
quiet  way.  I  had  some  good  letters  to  people 
in  England,  but  I  didn't  present  them.  The 
idea  of  introductions  became  a  bore  as  I  got 
nearer  to  it." 

"  And,  of  course  you  didn't  elope  with  the 
marquise  ?  " 

"  Was  that  in  my  scheme  ?  Well,  no,  I  did 
not." 

"  You  might  have  done  worse,  old  man.  You 
ought  to  have  a  wife,  to  keep  you  from  getting 
rusty  up  here.  And,  besides,  a  fellow  that  goes 
so  much  into  genealogy  should  take  some 
interest  in  posterity.  You  ought  to  cultivate 
the  science  practically." 

"  Oh,  I'm  past  all  danger  of  matrimony  now," 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  181 

said  Berkeley,  with  a  laugh.  "  There  was  a  girl 
that  I  was  rather  sweet  on  a  few  years  ago.  I 
was  looking  up  a  pedigree  for  her  papa,  and  I 
found  that  I  was  related  to  her  myself,  in  eight 
different  ways,  though  none  of  them  very  near. 
I  explained  it  to  her  one  evening.  It  took  me 
an  hour  to  do  it,  and  I  fancy  she  thought  it  a 
little  slow.  At  all  events,  when  I  afterward 
hinted  that  we  might  make  the  eight  ways  nine, 
she  answered  that  our  relationship  was  so  in 
tricate  already  that  she  couldn't  think  of  com 
plicating  it  any  further.  No,  you  may  put  me 
down  as  safe." 

After  this,  we  sat  listening  in  silence  to  the 
distant  beat  of  paddle-wheels  where  a  steamer 
was  moving  up  river. 

"  The  river  is  a  deal  of  company,"  resumed 
my  host.  "  Thirty-six  steamers  pass  here  every 
twenty-four  hours.  That  now  is  the  Mary 
Powell r 

"  Well,"  I  said,  answering  not  so  much  to 
his  last  remark  as  to  the  whole  trend  of 
his  autobiography,  "  I  suppose  you  are  happy 
in  this  way  of  life,  since  you  seem  to  prefer 
it.  But  it  would  be  terribly  monotonous 
to  me." 

"  Happy  ?  "  replied  Berkeley  doubtfully.  "  I 
don't  know.  Happiness  is  a  subjective  matter. 
You  are  happy  if  you  think  yourself  so.  As 
for  me,  I  cultivate  an  obsolete  mood — the  old- 
fashioned  humor  of  melancholy.  I  don't  sup 
pose  now  that  a  light-hearted,  French  kind  of 
chap  like  you  can  understand,  in  the  least,  what 


1 82  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

those  fine,  crusty  old  Elizabethans  meant  when 
they  wrote, 

'  There's  naught  in  this  life  sweet, 
If  man  were  wise  to  see't, 
But  only  melancholy.' 

This  noisy  generation  has  lost  their  secret.  As 
for  me,  I  am  content  with  the  grays  and  drabs. 
I  think  the  brighter  colors  would  disturb  my 
mood.  I  know  it's  not  a  large  life,  but  it  is  a 
safe  one." 

I  did  not  at  the  moment  remember  that  this 
had  been  Armstrong's  very  saying  fifteen  years 
ago,  but  some  unconscious  association  led  me 
to  mention  him. 

"  Armstrong  and  you  have  changed  places 
in  one  respect,  I  should  think,"  said  I.  "  He  is 
keeping  a  boarding-school  somewhere  in  Con 
necticut.  And  instead  of  leading  a  Tulking- 
horny  existence  in  the  New  York  University 
building,  as  he  firmly  intended,  he  has  married 
and  produced  a  numerous  offspring,  I  hear." 

"  Yes,  poor  fellow  !  "  said  Berkeley  ;  "  I  fancy 
that  he  is  dreadfully  overrun  and  hard  up. 
There  always  was  something  absurdly  domestic 
about  Armstrong.  They  say  he  has  grown 
red,  fat,  and  bald.  Think  of  a  man  with  Arm 
strong's  education — and  he  had  some  talent, 
too — keeping  a  sort  of  Dotheboys  Hall  !  I 
haven't  seen  him  for  eight  or  nine  years.  The 
last  time  was  at  Jersey  City,  and  I  had  just  time 
to  shake  hands  with  him.  He  was  with  a  lot 
of  other  pedagogues,  all  going  up  to  a  teacher's 


SPLIT  ZEPHYX.  183 

convention,  or  some  such  dreary  thing,  at 
Albany." 

I  had  an  opportunity  for  verifying  Berkeley's 
account  of  Armstrong  a  few  clays  after  my  con 
versation  with  the  former.  The  Pestalozzian 
Institute,  in  the  pleasant  little  village  of  Thim- 
bleville,  was  situated,  as  its  prospectus  informed 
the  public,  on  "  one  of  the  most  elegant  resi 
dence  streets,  in  one  of  the  healthiest  and  most 
beautiful  rural  towns  of  Eastern  Connecticut." 
Over  the  entrance  gate  was  a  Roman  arch  bear 
ing  the  inscription  "  Pestalozzian  Institute  "  in 
large  gilt  letters.  The  temple  of  learning  itself 
was  a  big,  bare,  white  house  at  some  distance 
from  the  street,  with  an  orchard  and  kitchen 
garden  on  one  side,  and  a  roomy  playground 
on  the  other.  The  latter  was  in  possession  of 
some  small  boys,  who  were  kicking  a  broken- 
winded  football  about  the  field  with  an  amount 
of  noise  greatly  in  excess  of  its  occasion.  To 
my  question  where  I  could  find  Mr.  Armstrong, 
they  answered  eagerly :  "  Mr.  Armstrong  ? 
Yes,  sir.  You  go  right  into  the  hall,  and  knock 
on  the  first  door  to  the  right,  and  he'll  come — 
or  some  one." 

The  door  to  the  large  square  entry  stood  wide 
open,  and  through  another  door  opposite,  which 
was  ajar,  I  saw  long  tables,  and  heard  the  clat 
ter  of  dishes  being  removed,  while  a  strong 
smell  of  dinner  filled  the  air.  I  knocked  at  the 
door  on  the  right,  but  no  one  appeared.  Finally, 
a  chubby  girl  of  about  ten  summers  came  run 
ning  round  the  corner  of  the  house  and  into  the 


1 84  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

front  door.  She  was  eating  an  apple,  and  gazed 
at  me  wonderingly. 

"  Is  Mr.  Armstrong  in  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  he's  about  somewhere.  Walk 
into  the  parlor,  please,  and  sit  clown,  and  I'll 
find  him." 

I  entered  the  room  on  the  right,  which  was 
a  bleak  and  official-looking  apartment, — ap 
parently  the  reception  room  where  parents  held 
interviews  with  the  instructor  of  youth,  or  tore 
themselves  from  the  parting  embraces  of  home 
sick  sons  at  the  beginning  of  a  new  term. 
There  is  always  something  depressing  about  the 
parlor  of  an  "  institution  "  of  any  kind,  and  I 
could  not  help  feeling  sorry  for  Armstong,  as  I 
waited  for  him,  seated  on  a  sofa  covered  with 
faded  rep.  At  length  the  door  of  an  inner  room 
opened,  and  the  principal  of  the  Pestalozzian 
Institute  waddled  across  the  floor  with  his  hand 
held  out,  crying  : 

"  Franky  Polisson,  how  are  you  ?  " 

He  certainly  had  grown  stout,  and  his  light 
hair  had  retreated  from  the  forehead.  He  wore 
glasses  and  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of  rusty  black, 
with  a  high  vest  which  gave  him  a  ministerial 
look — a  much  more  ministerial  look  than  Berke 
ley  had.  His  pantaloons  presented  that  appear 
ance  which  tailors  describe  as  "  kneeing  out." 
He  sat  clown,  and  we  chatted  for  half  an  hour. 
The  little  girl  had  followed  him  into  the  room, 
and  behind  her  came  another  three  or  four 
years  her  junior.  The  older  one  stood  by  his 
side,  and  he  kept  his  arm  around  her,  while  he 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  185 

held  the  younger  on  his  knee.  They  were  both 
pretty,  healthy-looking  children,  and  kept  their 
eyes  fixed  on  "  the  man." 

"  Are  those  your  own  kids  ? "  I  inquired 
presently. 

"  Yes,  two  of  them.  I  have  six,  you  know," 
he  answered,  with  a  fond  sigh ;  "  five  girls  and 
one  boy.  The  lasses  are  rather  in  the  majority." 

"  I  heard  you  were  quite  a  paterfamilias" 
I  said.  "  Won't  you  come  and  kiss  me,  little 
girl  ?  " 

To  this  proposal  the  elder  answered  by  bury 
ing  her  head  bashfully  in  her  father's  shoulder, 
while  the  smaller  one  simply  opened  her  eyes 
wider  and  stared  with  more  fixed  intensity. 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,"  exclaimed  Armstrong, 
"  of  course  you'll  take  tea  with  us  and  spend 
the  evening.  I  wish  I  could  offer  to  sleep  you 
here;  but  the  fact  is,  Mrs.  Armstrong's  sister 
is  with  us  for  a  few  days,  and  the  parents  of  one 
of  my  boys,  who  is  sick,  are  also  staying  here  ; 
so  that  my  guest  chambers  are  full." 

"Don't  mention  it,"  I  said.  "  I  couldn't  stay 
over  night.  I've  got  to  be  in  New  York  in  the 
morning,  and  must  take  the  nine  o'clock  train. 
But  I'll  stay  to  supper  and  much  obliged,  if  you 
are  sure  I  shan't  take  up  too  much  of  your 
time." 

"  Not  the  least— not  the  least.  This  is  a  half 
holiday,  and  nothing  in  particular  to  do."  He 
bustled  to  the  door  and  called  out  loudly, 
"  Mother  !  Mother  !  " 

There  was  no  response. 


1 86  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

"  Nelly,"  he  commanded,  "  run  and  find  your 
mamma,  and  tell  her  that  Mr.  Polisson — from 
New  Orleans — an  old  classmate  of  papa's,  will 
be  here  to  tea.  That's  a  good  girl.  Polisson, 
put  on  your  hat  and  let's  go  round  the  place.  I 
want  to  show  you  what  an  establishment  I've 
got  here." 

We  accordingly  made  the  tour  of  the  prem 
ises,  Armstrong  doing  the  cicerone  impressively, 
and  every  now  and  then  urging  me  with  em 
phatic  hospitality  to  come  and  spend  a  week — a 
fortnight— longer,  if  I  chose,  during  the  summer 
vacation. 

"Bring  Mrs.  Polisson  and  the  kids.  Bring 
'em  all,"  he  said.  "  It  will  do  them  good  ;  the 
air  here  is  fine  ;  eleven  hundred  feet  above  the 
sea.  No  malaria — no  typhoid.  I  laid  out  four 
hundred  dollars  last  year  on  sewerage." 

It  being  a  half  holiday,  most  of  the  big  boys 
had  gone  to  a  pond  in  the  neighborhood  for 
a  swim,  under  the  conduct  of  the  classical 
master — a  Yale  graduate,  Armstrong  explained, 
who  had  stood  fourth  in  his  class,  "  and  a  very 
able  fellow,  very  able." 

But  while  we  sat  at  tea  in  Armstrong's 
family  dining  room,  which  adjoined  the  school 
commons,  we  were  made  aware  of  the  return 
of  the  swimming  party  by  the  constant  shuffle 
and  tramp  of  feet  through  the  hall  and  the 
noise  of  feeding  in  the  next  room.  At  our 
table  were  present  Mrs.  Armstrong,  her  sister 
(who  had  a  frightened  air  when  addressed  and 
conversed  in  monosyllables),  the  parents  of  the 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  187 

sick  pupil,  and  Armstrong's  two  eldest  children. 
I  surmised  that  the  younger  children  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  sharing  in  the  social  meal,  and 
had  been  crowded  out  on  this  occasion  by  the 
number  of  guests  ;  for  I  heard  them  fremunt- 
ing  in  carcere  behind  a  door  through  which 
the  waitress  passed  out  and  in,  bringing  plates 
of  waffles.  The  remonstrances  of  the  waitress 
were  also  audible,  and,  when  the  wailing  rose 
high,  my  hostess'  face  had  a  distrait  expres 
sion,  as  of  one  prepared  at  any  moment  for  an 
irruption  of  infant  Goths. 

Mrs.  Armstrong  was  a  vivacious  little 
woman,  who,  I  conjectured,  had  once  been 
a  village  belle,  with  some  pretensions  to  es- 
fiieglerie  and  the  fragile  prettiness  common 
among  New  England  country  girls.  But  the 
bearing  and  rearing  of  a  family  of  children,  and 
the  matronizing  of  a  houseful  of  hungry  school 
boys  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  ends  meet,  had 
substituted  a  faded  and  worried  look  for  her 
natural  liveliness  of  expression.  She  bore  up 
bravely,  however,  against  the  embarrassments 
of  the  occasion.  In  particular,  it  pleased  her  to 
take  a  facetious  view  of  college  life. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Polisson,"  she  cried,  "  I  am  afraid 
that  you  and  my  husband  were  very  gay  young 
men  when  you  were  at  college  together.  Oh, 
don't  tell  me  ;  I  know — I  know.  I've  heard  of 
some  of  your  scrapes." 

I  protested  feebly  against  this  impeachment, 
but  Armstrong  winked  at  me  with  the  air  of 
a  sly  dog,  and  said  : 


1 88  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

"  It's  no  use,  Polisson.  You  can't  fool  Mrs. 
A.  Buckingham  and  one  or  two  of  the  fellows 
have  been  here  to  dinner  occasionally,  and  I'm 
afraid  they've  given  us  away." 

"  Yes,"  she  affirmed,  "  Mr.  Buckingham  was 
one  of  you,  too,  I  guess,  though  he  is  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Buckingham  now.  Oh,  he  has  told  me." 

"You  remember  old  Buck?  "put  in  Arm 
strong.  "  He  is  preaching  near  here — settled 
over  a  church  at  Bobtown." 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "  I  remember  there  was 
such  a  man  in  the  class,  but  really  I  didn't 
know  that  he  was — ah — such  a  character  as 
you  seem  to  infer,  Mrs.  Armstrong." 

"  Oh,  he  has  quieted  down  now,  I  assure 
you,"  said  the  lady.  "  He  is  as  prim  and  proper 
as  a  Methodist  meeting-house.  Why,  he  has  to 
be,  you  know." 

This  amusing  fiction  of  the  wildness  of  Arm 
strong's  youth  had  evidently  become  a  family 
tradition  and  even,  by  a  familiar  process,  an 
article  of  belief  in  his  own  mind.  It  reminded 
me  grotesquely  of  Justice  Shallow's  reminis 
cences  with  Sir  John  Falstaff:  "  Ha,  Cousin 
Silence,  that  thou  haclst  seen  that,  that  this 
knight  and  I  have  seen.  .  .  Jesu,  Jesu,  the 
mad  days  that  I  have  spent !  " 

The  resemblance  became  still  stronger  when, 
as  we  rose  from  the  table,  the  good  fellow 
beckoned  me  into  a  closet  which  opened  off  the 
dining  room,  saying,  in  a  hoarse  whisper  : 

"  Here,  Polisson,  come  in  here." 

He  was  uncorking  a  large  bottle  half  rilled 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  189 

with  some  red  liquid,  and  as  he  poured  a  por 
tion  of  this  into  two  glasses  he  explained : 

"  I  don't  have  this  sort  of  thing  on  the  table, 
you  understand,  on  account  of  the  children  and 
my — ah — position.  It  would  make  talk.  But 
I  tell  you  this  is  some  of  the  real  old  stuff. 
How  \"  And  he  held  his  glass  up  to  the  light, 
regarding  it  with  the  one  eye  of  a  connoisseur, 
and  then  drank  down  its  contents  with  a  smack. 
I  was  considerably  astonished,  on  doing  the 
same,  to  discover  that  this  dark  beverage— 
which,  from  Armstrong's  manner,  I  had  been 
prepared  to  find  something  at  least  as  wicked  as 
absinthe — was  simply  and  solely  Bordeaux  of  a 
mild  quality.  After  this  Bacchanalian  proceed 
ing  we  went  out  into  the  orchard,  which  was 
reserved  for  family  use,  and  sat  on  a  bench 
under  an  apple  tree.  Armstrong  called  his 
little  boy  who  had  been  at  supper  with  us  and 
gave  him  a  whispered  message,  together  with 
some  small  change.  The  messenger  disap 
peared,  and  after  a  short  absence  returned  with 
two  very  domestic  cigars,  transparently  bought 
for  the  nonce  from  some  neighboring  grocer. 

"  Have  a  smoke,"  commanded  my  host,  and  we 
solemnly  kindled  the  rolls  of  yellow  leaf,  Arm 
strong  puffing  away  at  his  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who,  though  intrusted  by  destiny  with  the 
responsibility  of  molding  the  characters  of 
youth,  has  not  forgotten  how  to  be  a  man  of 
the  world  on  occasion. 

"  Well,  Charley,"  I  began,  after  a  few  pre 
liminary  draughts,  "  you  seem  to  have  a  good 


190  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

thing  of  it.  Your  school  is  prosperous,  I  under 
stand  ;  the  work  suits  you  ;  you  have  a  mighty 
pretty  family  of  children  growing  up,  and  your 
health  appears  to  be  perfect." 

"  Yes,"  he  admitted  ;  "  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
be  thankful.  I  certainly  enjoy  great  mercies. 
It's  a  warm,  crowded  kind  of  life ;  plenty  of 
affection — plenty  of  anxiety  too,  to  be  sure. 
I  like  to  have  the  boys  around  me;  it  keeps 
one's  heart  fresh,  though  in  a  way  it's  some 
times  wearing  to  the  nerves.  Yes,  I  like  the 
young  rascals — I  like  them.  But,  of  course,  it 
has  its  drawbacks.  Most  careers  have,"  he 
added,  in  a  burst  of  commonplace. 

"  It  is  not  exactly  the  career  that  you  had  cut 
out  for  yourself,"  I  suggested,  "  when  we  talked 
our  plans  over,  you  remember,  that  last  evening 
at  New  Haven." 

"No,  it's  not,"  he  acknowledged;  "but  per 
haps  it  is  a  better  one.  What  was  it  I  said 
then?  I  really  don't  recall  it.  Something  very 
silly,  no  doubt." 

"  Oh,  you  said,  in  a  general  way,  that  you 
were  going  in  for  money  and  celibacy  and  selfish 
ness — just  as  you  have  not  done." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  know,  I  remember  now,"  he 
said,  laughing.  "  Boys  are  great  fools  with 
their  brag  of  what  they  are  going  to  do  and  be. 
Life  knocks  it  out  of  them  fast  enough  ;  they 
learn  to  do  what  they  must." 

"  Do  you  ever  write  any  poetry  nowadays  ?  " 

"  No,  no ;  not  I.  The  muse  has  given  me 
the  go-by  completely.  Except  for  some  occa- 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  191 

sional  verses  for  a  school  festival  or  something 
of  the  kind,  which  I  grind  out  now  and  then, 
I've  sunk  my  rhyming  dictionary  deeper  than 
ever  plummet  sounded.  The  chief  disadvan 
tage  of  running  a  big  school  like  this,"  he  con 
tinued,  with  a  sigh,  "  is  the  want  of  leisure  and 
retirement  to  enable  a  man  to  keep  up  his 
studies.  Sometimes  I  actually  ache  for  solitude 
— for  a  few  weeks  or  months  of  absolute  loneli 
ness  and  silence.  Mrs.  Armstrong  has  fixed 
me  up  a  nice  little  private  study — remind  me  to 
take  you  in  there  before  you  go — where  I  keep 
my  books,  etc.  But  the  children  will  find  their 
way  in,  and  then  I'm  seldom  undisturbed  any 
where  for  more  than  an  hour  at  a  time  ;  there's 
always  some  call  on  me — something  wanted 
that  no  one  else  can  see  to." 

"  You  ought  to  swap  places  with  Berkeley 
for  a  while.  He's  got  more  leisure  than  he 
knows  what  to  do  with," 

"  Berkeley !  Well,  what's  he  up  to  now  ? 
Philately  ?  Arboriculture  ?  What's  his  last 
fad  ?  You've  seen  him  lately,  you  said.  I  met 
him  for  a  minute  in  New  York,  a  few  years  ago, 
and  he  told  me  he  was  going  to  an  old  book 
auction." 

"He's  got  genealogy  at  present,"  I  ex 
plained. 

"  Genealogy  !  What  hay !  What  sawdust ! 
Aren't  there  enough  live  people  to  take  an 
interest  in,  without  grubbing  up  dead  ones 
from  tombstones  and  town  clerks'  records  ? 
Berkeley  must  be  a  regular  old  bachelor  anti- 


192  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

quary  by  this  time,  with  all  human  sympathy 
dried  out  of  him.  No,  I  wouldn't  change  with 
him.  Would  we,  fatty  ?  "  he  said,  appealing  to 
a  small  offspring  of  uncertain  sex  which  had 
just  toddled  out  the  door  and  across  the  gang 
way  to  kiss  its  papa  good-night. 

I  took  leave  of  Armstrong  and  his  interesting 
family  with  a  sense  of  increased  liking,  His 
unworldliness,  good  nature,  and  simple  little 
enthusiasms  and  self-satisfactions  had  some 
how  kept  him  young,  and  he  seemed  quite  the 
old  Armstrong  of  college  days.  I  afterward 
learned  that  the  excellent  fellow  had  just 
finished  his  law  studies  and  was  preparing  to 
enter  upon  practice,  when  his  father's  health 
failed,  forcing  him  to  give  up  his  parish,  and 
leaving  a  number  of  younger  brothers  and 
sisters  partly  dependent  on  Armstrong.  He 
had  accordingly  taken  the  first  situation  that 
promised  a  fair  salary,  and,  having  got  started 
upon  the  work  of  teaching,  had  been  unable  to 
let  go  until  it  was  too  late  ;  had,  indeed,  got 
deeper  and  deeper  in,  by  falling  in  love  and 
impulsively  marrying  at  the  first  opportunity, 
and  finally  setting  up  for  himself  at  the  Pesta- 
lozzian  Institute.  Poor  fellow  !  Good  fellow  ! 
Amico  mio,  non  delta  ventura. 

My  next  call  was  upon  Clay,  who  had  rooms 
in  the  Babel  building  in  New  York,  and  was 
reported  to  be  something  of  a  Bohemian.  He 
received  me  in  a  smoking  jacket  and  slippers. 
He  had  grown  a  full  beard,  which  hid  his 
finely  cut  features.  His  black  eyes  had  the  old 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  1 93 

fire,  but  his  skin  was  sallower,  and  I  thought 
that  his  manner  had  a  touch  of  listlessness, 
mingled  with  irritability  and  defiance.  He  was 
glad  to  see  me  ;  but  inclined  to  be  at  first,  not 
precisely  distant,  yet  by  no  means  confidential, 
After  a  while,  however,  he  thawed  out  and 
became  more  like  the  Clay  whom  I  remem 
bered — our  college  genius,  the  brilliant,  the 
admired,  in  those  days  of  eager  hero  worship. 
I  told  him  of  my  visits  to  Berkeley  and 
Armstrong. 

"  Berkeley  I  see  now  and  then  in  town,"  said 
Clay.  "  It  was  rather  queer  of  him  to  turn 
parson,  but  I  guess  he  doesn't  let  his  theology 
bother  him  much.  He  has  a  really  superior 
collection  of  etchings,  I  am  told.  Armstrong, 
I  haven't  seen  in  years.  I  knew  he  was  a  peda 
gogue  somewhere  in  Connecticut." 

"  Don't  you  ever  go  to  the  class  reunions  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  Class  reunions  ?     Well,  hardly." 

"  I  should  think  you  would  ;  you  are  so  near 
New  Haven." 

"  How  charmingly  provincial  you  are — you 
Southern  chaps !  Don't  you  know  that,  to  a 
man  who  lives  in  New  York,  nothing  is  near? 
Besides,  as  to  my  classmates  at  old  Yale  and 
all  that,  I  would  go  round  a  corner  to  avoid 
meeting  most  of  them." 

I  expressed  myself  as  duly  shocked  by  this 
sentiment,  and  presently  I  inquired : 

"  Well,  Clay,  how  are  you  getting  on,  any- 


194  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

"  That's  a  d d  general  question.  How  do 

you  want  me  to  answer  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,  if  you  don't  like." 

"  Well,  don't  get  miffed.  Suppose  I  answer, 
'  Pretty  well,  I  thank  you,  sir.'  How  will  that 
do  ?  " 

"  Are  you  writing  anything  now  ?  " 

"  I'm  always  scribbling  something  or  other. 
At  present  I've  got  the  position  of  dramatic 
critic  on  the  Daily  Boreas,  which  is  not  a  very 
bad  bore,  and  keeps  the  pot  boiling.  And  I  do 
more  or  less  work  of  a  hack  kind  for  the 
magazines  and  cyclopedias,  etc." 

"  I  thought  you  were  on  the  Weekly  Prig. 
Berkeley  or  somebody  told  me  so." 

"  So  I  was  at  one  time,  but  I  got  out  of  it. 
The  work  was  drying  me  up  too  fast.  The 
concern  is  run  by  a  lot  of  cusses  who  have 
failed  in  various  branches  of  literature  them 
selves,  and  undertake  in  consequence  to  make 
it  unpleasant  for  everyone  else  who  tries  to 
write  anything.  I  got  so  that  I  could  sling  as 
cynical  a  quill  as  the  rest  of  them.  But  the  trick 
is  an  easy  one  and  hardly  worth  learning.  It's 
a  great  fraud,  this  business  of  reviewing.  Here's 
a  man  of  learning,  for  instance,  who  has  spent 
years  of  research  on  a  particular  work.  He 
has  collected  a  large  library,  perhaps,  on  his 
subject;  knows  more  about  it  than  anyone  else 
living.  Then  along  comes  some  insolent  little 
whipper-snapper — like  me — whose  sole  knowl 
edge  of  the  matter  in  hand  is  drawn  from  the 
very  book  that  he  pretends  to  criticise,  and 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  195 

patronizes  the  learned  author  in  a  book  notice. 
No,  I  got  out  of  it ;  I  hadn't  the  cheek." 

"  I  bought  your  book,"  *  said  I,  "  as  soon  as 
it  came  out." 

"  That's  more  than  the  public  did." 

"Yes,  and  I  read  it,  too." 

"  No  !  Did  you,  now  ?  That's  true  friend 
ship.  Well,  how  did  you  like  it  ?  Did  you  get 
your  money's  worth  ?  " 

I  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  answered : 

"  It  was  clever,  of  course.  Anything  that 
you  write  would  be  sure  to  be  that.  But  it 
didn't  appear  to  get  down  to  hard-pan  or  to 
take  a  firm  grip  on  life— did  it  ?  " 

"  Ah,  that's  what  the  critics  said— only 
they've  got  a  set  of  phrases  for  expressing  it. 
They  said  it  was  amateurish,  that  it  was  in  a 
falsetto  key,  etc." 

"Well,  how  does  it  strike  you,  yourself? 
You  know  that  it  didn't  come  out  of  the  deep 
places  of  your  nature,  don't  you  ?  You  feel  that 
you've  got  better  behind  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  A  man  does  what  he 
can.  I  rather  think  it's  the  best  I  can  do  at 
present." 

"Why  don't  you  go  at  some  more  serious 
work?  some  magnum  opus  that  would  bring 
your  whole  strength  into  play  ?  " 

"  A  magnum  opus,  my  dear  fellow  !  "  replied 
Clay,  with  a  shade  of  irritation  in  his  voice. 

*  Dialogues  and  Romances.  By  E.  Clay.  New 
York  :  Pater  &  Sons,  1874. 


196  SPLIT  ZEPHYR, 

"You  talk  as  if  a  magnum  opus  could  be  done 
for  the  wishing.  Why  don't  you  do  a  magnum 
opus,  then  ?  " 

"Why  don't  I?  Oh,  I'm  not  a  literary 
fellow — never  professed  to  be.  What  a  ques 
tion  ! " 

"Well,  no  more  am  I,  perhaps.  I  don't  think 
any  better  of  the  stuff  that  I  scribble  than  you 
do.  It's  all  an  experiment  with  me.  I'm  try 
ing  my  brushes— trying  my  brushes.  Perhaps 
I  may  be  able  to  do  something  stronger  some 
day,  and  perhaps  not.  But  at  all  events  I 
shan't  force  my  mood.  I  shall  wait  for  my  in 
spiration.  One  thing  I've  noticed,  that  as  a 
man  grows  older  he  loses  his  spontaneity  and 
gets  more  critical  with  himself.  I  could  do 
more,  no  doubt,  if  I  would  only  let  myself  go. 
But  I'm  like  this  meerschaum  here — a  hard 
piece  and  slow  in  coloring." 

"  Well,  meanwhile  you  might  do  something 
in  the  line  of  scholarship,  a  history  or  a  volume 
of  critical  essays — '  Hours  with  the  Poets,'  or 
something  of  that  kind,  that  would  bring  in  the 
results  of  your  reading.  Have  you  seen  Brain- 
ard's  book  ?  It  seemed  to  me  work  that  was 
worth  doing.  But  you  could  do  something  of 
the  same  kind,  only  much  better,  without  taking 
your  hands  out  of  your  pockets." 

Brainard  was  a  painstaking  classmate  of  ours, 
who  had  been  for  some  years  Professor  of  Men 
tal  and  Moral  Philosophy,  English  Literature, 
and  European  History,  in  a  western  university, 
and  had  recently  published  a  volume  entitled 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  ^97 

"  Theism  and  Pantheism  in  the  Literature  of 
the  English  Renaissance,"  which  was  well 
spoken  of,  and  was  already  in  its  third  edition. 
"  Yes,  I've  seen  the  stuff,"  said  Clay.  "  My 
unhappy  country  swarms  with  that  sort  of 
thing:  books  about  books,  and  books  about 
other  books  about  books— like  the  big  fleas  and 
little  fleas.  It's  not  literature;  it's  a  parasitic 
growth  that  infests  literature.  I  always  say  to 
myself,  with  the  melancholy  Jaques,  whenever  I 
have  to  look  over  a  book  by  Brainard  or  any 
such  fellow,  '  I  think  of  as  many  matters  as  he  ) 
but  I  give  Heaven  thanks  and  make  no  boast 
of  them.'  No,  I  don't  care  to  add  anything  to 
that  particular  rubbish  heap.  You  know  Emer 
son  said  that  the  worse  poem  is  better  than  the 
best  criticism  of  it.  The  trouble  with  me  is  that 
what  I  want  to  do  I  can't  do— at  present ;  what 
I  can  do  I  don't  think  it  worth  while  to  do — 
worth  my  while,  at  least.  Someone  else  may 
do  it  and  get  the  credit  and  welcome." 

"  But  you  do  a  good  deal  of  work  that  you 
don't  care  about,  as  it  is,"  I  objected. 

"  Of  course.  A  man  must  live,  and  so  I  do 
the  nearest  thing  and  the  one  that  pays  quick 
est.  I  got  eighty  dollars,  now,  for  that  last 
screed  in  The  Reservoir. 

"  But,"  I  persisted,  "  I  thought  that  money- 
making  had  no  part  in  your  scheme.  You 
could  make  more  money  in  a  dozen  other  busi 
nesses." 

"  So  I  could,"  he  answered ;  "  but  they  all 
involve  some  form  of  slavery.  Now,  I  am  my 


I98  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

own  master.  After  all,  every  profession  has 
its  drudgery,  and  literary  drudgery  is  not  the 
worst." 

"  Well,"  I  conceded,  "  independent  of  what 
you  accomplish,  I  suppose  your  way  of  life  fur 
nishes  as  many  daily  satisfactions  as  any.  I 
sometimes  envy  you  and  Berkeley  your  freedom 
from  business  cares  and  your  opportunities  for 
study.  What  becomes  of  most  men's  college 
training,  for  example  ?  By  Jove  !  I  picked  up 
a  Greek  book  the  other  day,  and  I  couldn't  read 
three  words  running.  Now,  I  take  it,  you 
manage  to  keep  up  your  classics,  among  other 
things." 

"  Oh,  my  way  of  life  has  its  compensations," 
he  answered.  "  But  Sidney  Smith— wasn't  it  ? 
— said  that  life  was  a  middling  affair,  anyway. 
As  for  the  classics,  etc.,  I  find  that  reading  and 
study  lose  much  of  their  stimulus  unless  they 
get  an  issue  in  action — unless  one  can  apply 
them  directly  toward  his  own  work.  I  often 
think  that,  if  I  were  fifteen  or  even  ten  years 
younger,  I  would  go  into  some  branch  of  natural 
science.  A  scientific  man  always  seems  to  me 
peculiarly  happy  in  the  healthy  character  of  his 
work.  He  can  keep  himself  apart  from  it.  It  is 
objective,  impersonal,  makes  no  demand  on  his 
emotions.  Now  a  writing  man  has  to  put  him 
self  into  his  work.  He  has  to  keep  looking  out 
all  the  time  for  impressions,  material ;  to  keep 
trying  to  enlarge  and  deepen  his  own  experi 
ence,  and  he  gets  self-conscious  and  loses  his 
freshness  in  the  process." 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  *99 

"  I  am  surprised  to  find  you  in  New  York," 
said  I,  by  way  of  changing  the  subject.  "  I 
thought  you  had  laid  out  to  live  in  the  country. 
Do  you  remember  that  pretty  little  word-picture 
of  a  winter  afternoon  that  you  drew  us — some 
thing  in  the  style  of  anllPenseroso  landscape? 
I  expected  to  find  you  domesticated  in  a  Berk 
shire  farmhouse." 

"  Yes,  I  remember.  I  tried  it.  But  I  find  it 
necessary,  for  my  work,  to  be  in  New  York. 
The  newspapers — confound  'em  ! — won't  move 
into  the  woods.  But,  after  all,  place  is  indif 
ferent.  See  here;  this  isn't  bad." 

He  drew  aside  the  window  curtain,  and  I 
looked  out  over  a  wilderness  of  roofs  to  the 
North  River  and  the  Palisades  tinged  with  a 
purple  light.  The  ferryboats  and  tugs  plying 
over  the  water  in  every  direction,  the  noise  of 
the  steam  whistles,  and  the  clouds  of  white 
vapor  floating  on  the  clear  air,  made  an  inspirit 
ing  scene. 

"  I'm  up  among  the  architects  here,"  con 
tinued  Clay  ;  "  nothing  but  the  janitor's  family 
between  me  and  the  roof." 

We  talked  awhile  longer,  and  on  taking  leave 
I  said : 

"I  shall  be  on  the  lookout  for  something 
big  from  you  one  of  these  days.  You  know 
what  we  always  expected  of  you.  So  don't 
lose  your  grip,  old  man." 

"Who  knows?"  he  replied.  "It  doesn't 
rest  with  me,  but  with  the  daimon." 

I  was  unable  to  visit  Dodd ridge,  the  remain- 


200  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

ing  member  of  our  group.  He  lived  in  the 
thriving  town  of  Wahee,  Minnesota,  and  I  had 
heard  of  him,  in  a  general  way,  as  highly 
prosperous.  He  was  a  prominent  lawyer  and 
successful  politician,  and  had  lately  been 
appointed  United  States  district  judge,  after 
representing  his  section  in  the  state  senate  for 
a  term  or  two.  I  wrote  to  him,  congratulating 
him  on  his  success  and  asking  for  details.  I 
mentioned  also  my  visits  to  Berkeley,  Arm 
strong,  and  Clay.  I  got  a  prompt  reply  from 
Doddridge,  from  whfch  I  extract  such  portions 
as  are  material  to  this  narrative  : 

The  first  few  months  after  I  left  college,  I  traveled 
pretty  extensively  through  the  West,  making  con 
tracts  with  the  farmers,  as  agent  for  a  nursery  and 
seed  farm  in  my  part  of  the  country,  but  really  with 
the  object  of  spying  out  the  land  and  choosing  a 
place  to  settle  in.  Finally  I  lit  on  Wahee,  and 
made  up  my  mind  that  it  was  a  town  with  a  future. 
It  was  bound  to  be  a  railroad  center.  It  had  a  first- 
rate  agricultural  country  around  it  and  a  rich  timber 
region  a  little  further  back  ;  and  it  already  had  an 
enterprising  little  pop.  growing  rapidly,  To-day 
Wahee  is  as  smart  a  city  of  its  inches  as  there  is  in 
the  Northwest.  I  squatted  right  down  here,  got  a 
little  raise  from  the  old  man,  and  put  it  all  into 
building  lots.  I  made  a  good  thing  of  it,  and  paid 
it  all  back  in  six  years  with  eight  per  cent,  interest. 
Meanwhile,  I  went  into  Judge  Pratt's  law  office  and 
made  my  salt  by  fitting  his  boy  for  college — till  I 
learned  enough  law  to  earn  a  salary.  The  judge 
was  an  old  Waheer — belonged  to  the  time-honored 
aristocracy  of  the  place,  having  been  here  at  least 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  201 

fifteen  years  before  I  came.  He  got  into  railroads 
after  a  while  (is  president  now  of  the  Wahee  and 
Heliopolis  Bee  Line),  and  left  his  law  practice  to  me. 
I  married  his  daughter  Alice  in  1875.  She  is  a 
"Western  girl,  but  she  was  educated  at  Vassar.  We 
have  two  boys.  If  you  ever  come  out  our  way, 
Polisson,  you  must  put  up  with  us  for  as  long  as  you 
can  stay.  I  would  like  to  show  you  the  country 
about  here,  and  have  you  ride  after  my  team.  I've 
got  a  pair  that  can  do  it  inside  three  minutes.  Do 
you  remember  Liddell  of  our  class?  He  is  an 
architect,  you  know.  I  got  him  to  come  to  Wahee, 
and  he  has  all  he  can  do,  putting  up  business  blocks. 
We  have  got  some  here  equal  to  anything  in 
Chicago.  .  .  . 

Yes,  I  am  United  States  judge  for  this  district. 
There  is  not  much  money  in  it,  but  it  will  help  me 
professionally  by  and  by.  I  shall  not  keep  it  long. 
Do  I  go  into  politics  much,  you  ask.  I  used  to,  but 
I've  got  through  for  the  present.  The  folks  about 
here  wanted  to  run  me  for  Congress  last  term,  but  I 
hadn't  any  use  for  it.  As  to  what  you  are  kind 
enough  to  say  about  my  "success,"  etc.,  whatever 
success  I  have  had  is  owing  to  nothing  but  a  capacity 
for  hard  work,  which  is  the  only  talent  that  I  lay 
claim  to.  They  want  a  man  out  here  who  will  do 
the  work  that  comes  to  hand,  and  keep  on  doing  it 
till  something  better  turns  up.  .  .  . 

So  Berkeley  has  turned  out  a  dilettante  instead  of 
an  African  explorer.  I  heard  he  was  a  minister. 
He  does  not  seem  to  have  much  ambition  even  in 
that  line  of  life.  I  should  think  Armstrong  had  got 
the  right  kind  of  place  for  him.  He  was  a  good  fel 
low,  but  never  had  much  practical  ability.  You  say 
very  little  about  Clay.  How  is  old  "  Sweetness  and 


202  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

Light,"  anyway  ?  I  saw  some  fluff  of  his  in  one  of  the 
magazines — a  "  romance  "  I  think  he  called  it.  This 
is  not  an  age  for  scribbling  romances.  The  country 
wants  something  solider.  I  never  took  much  stock  in 
philosophers  like  Berkeley  and  Clay.  There  is  the 
the  same  thing  the  trouble  with  them  both  :  they 
don't  want  to  do  any  hard  work,  and  they  conceal 
their  laziness  under  fine  names — culture,  transcen 
dentalism,  and  what  not  ?  "  Feeble  and  restless 
youths,  born  to  inglorious  days." 

This  letter  may  be  supplemented  by  another 
— say  Exhibit  B — which  I  received  from  Clay 
not  long  after : 

MY  DEAR  POLISSON  : 

It  occurs  to  me  that  your  question  the  other  day, 
as  to  how  I  was  "getting  on,"  did  not  receive  as 
candid  an  answer  as  it  deserved.  I  am  afraid  that 
you  carried  away  an  impression  of  me  as  of  a  man 
who  suspected  himself  to  be  a  failure,  but  had  not 
the  manliness  to  acknowledge  it.  You  will  say, 
perhaps,  that  there  are  all  degrees  of  half  success 
short  of  absolute  failure.  But  I  say  no.  In  the  ca 
reer  which  I  have  chosen,  to  miss  of  success — pro 
nounced,  unquestionable  success — is  to  fail  ;  and  I 
am  not  weak  enough  to  hide  from  myself  on  which 
side  of  the  line  I  fall.  The  line  is  a  very  distinct 
one,  after  all.  The  fact  is,  I  took  the  wrong  turn 
ing,  and  it  is  too  late  to  go  back.  I  am  a  case  of 
arrested  development — a  common  enough  case.  I 
might  give  plenty  of  excellent  excuses  to  my  friends 
for  not  having  accomplished  what  they  expected  me 
to.  But  the  world  doesn't  want  apologies  ;  if  wants 
performance. 


SPLIT  ZEPHYR.  203 

You  will  think  this  letter  a  most  extraordinary  out 
burst  of  morbid  vanity.  But  while  I  can  afford  to 
have  you  think  me  a  failure,  I  couldn't  let  you  go  on 
thinking  me  a  fraud.  That  must  be  my  excuse  for 
writing. 

Yours,  as  ever, 

E.  CLAY. 

This  letter  moved  me  deeply  by  its  character 
istic  mingling  of  egotism  and  elevation  of  feel 
ing.  As  I  held  it  open  in  my  hand,  and  thought 
over  my  classmates'  fortunes,  I  was  led  to  make 
a  few  reflections.  From  the  fact  that  Armstrong 
and  Berkeley  were  leading  lives  that  squarely 
contradicted  their  announced  ideals  and  inten 
tions,  it  was  an  obvious,  but  not  therefore  a  true, 
inference  that  circumstance  is  usually  stronger 
than  will.  Say,  rather,  that  the  species  of  ne 
cessity  which  consists  in  character  and  inborn 
tendency  is  stronger  than  any  resolution  to  run 
counter  to  it. 

Both  Armstrong  and  Berkeley,  on  our  Com 
mencement  night,  had  spoken  from  a  sense  of 
their  own  limitations,  and  in  violent  momentary 
rebellion  against  them.  But,  in  talking  with 
them  fifteen  years  later,  I  could  not  discover 
that  the  lack  of  correspondence  between  their 
ideal  future  and  their  actual  present  troubled 
them  much.  It  is  matter  of  common  note 
tftat  it  is  impossible  to  make  one  man  realize 
another's  experience ;  but  it  is  often  quite  as 
hard  to  make  him  recover  a  past  stage  of  his 
own  consciousness. 

These,  then,  had  bent  to  the  force  of  chance 


204  SPLIT  ZEPHYR. 

or  temperament.  But  Clay  had  shaped  his  life 
according  to  his  programme,  and  had  the  result 
been  happier  ?  He  who  gets  his  wish  often 
suffers  a  sharper  disappointment  than  he  who 
loses  it.  "  So  tduscht  uns  also  bald  die  Hoff- 
nung,  bald  das  Gehqffte"  says  the  great  pes 
simist,  and  Fate  is  never  more  ironical  than 
when  she  humors  our  whim.  Doddridge  alone, 
who  had  thrown  himself  confidingly  into  the 
arms  of  the  Destinies,  had  obtained  their 
capricious  favors. 

I  cannot  say  that  I  drew  any  counsel,  civil  or 
moral,  from  these  comparisons.  Life  is  deeper 
and  wider  than  any  particular  lesson  to  be 
learned  from  it ;  and  just  when  we  think  that 
we  have  at  last  guessed  its  best  meanings,  it 
laughs  in  our  face  with  some  paradox  which 
turns  our  solution  into  a  new  riddle. 


VI. 
A  GRAVEYARD  IDYL 


VI. 
A  GRAVEYARD  IDYL. 

,N   the  summer  of  187-,  when   young 
Doctor  Putnam  was  recovering  from 


an  attack  of  typhoid  fever,  he  used  to 
take  short  walks  in  the  suburbs  of  the 
little  provincial  town  where  he  lived.  He  was 
still  weak  enough  to  need  a  cane,  and  had  to 
sit  down  now  and  then  to  rest.  His  favorite 
haunt  was  an  old-fashioned  cemetery  lying  at 
the  western  edge  of  the  alluvial  terrace  on 
which  the  town  is  built.  The  steep  hillside 
abuts  boldly  on  the  salt  marsh.  One  of  the 
cemetery  paths  runs  along  the  brink  of  the  hill ; 
and  here,  on  a  wooden  bench  under  a  clump  of 
red  cedars,  Putnam  would  sit  for  hours  enjoy 
ing  the  listless  mood  of  convalesence,  where  the 
will  remains  passive,  the  mind,  like  an  idle 
weathercock,  turns  to  every  puff  of  suggestion, 
and  the  senses,  born  new  from  sickness,  have 
the  freshness  and  delicacy  of  a  child's.  It 
soothed  his  eye  to  follow  lazily  the  undulations 
of  the  creek,  lying  like  the  folds  of  a  blue  silk 
ribbon  on  the  flat  ground  of  the  marsh  below. 
He  watched  the  ebbing  tide  suck  down  the 
water  from  the  even  lines  of  trenches  that 
207 


208  A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL. 

sluiced  the  meadows,  till  the  black  mud  at  their 
bottom  glistened  in  the  sun.  The  opposite  hills 
were  dark  with  the  heavy  foliage  of  July.  In 
the  distance  a  sail  or  two  speckled  the  flashing 
waters  of  the  bay,  and  the  lighthouse  beyond 
bounded  the  southern  horizon. 

It  was  a  quiet,  shady  old  cemetery,  not  much 
disturbed  by  funerals.  Only  at  rare  intervals  a 
fresh  heap  of  earth  and  a  slab  of  clean  marble 
intruded,  with  their  tale  of  a  new  and  clamorous 
grief,  among  the  sunken  mounds  and  weather- 
stained  tombstones  of  the  ancient  sleepers  for 
whom  the  tears  had  long  been  dried.  Now 
and  then  a  mourner  came  to  put  flowers  on  a 
grave ;  now  and  then  one  of  the  two  or  three 
laborers  who  kept  the  walks  and  shrubberies  in 
order  would  come  along  the  path  by  Putnam's 
bench,  trundling  a  squeaking  wheelbarrow ; 
sometimes  a  nurse  with  a  baby-carriage  found 
her  way  in.  But  generally  the  only  sounds  to 
break  the  quiet  were  the  songs  of  birds,  the 
rumble  of  a  wagon  over  the  spile  bridge  across 
the  creek  and  the  whetting  of  scythes  in  the 
water-meadows,  where  the  mowers,  in  boots  up 
to  their  waists,  went  shearing  the  oozy  plain 
and  stacking  up  the  salt  hay. 

One  afternoon  Putnam  was  in  his  accus 
tomed  seat,  whistling  softly  to  himself  and  cut 
ting  his  initials  into  the  edge  of  the  bench. 
The  air  was  breathless,  and  the  sunshine  lay 
so  hot  on  the  marshes  that  it  seemed  to  draw 
up  in  a  visible  steam  a  briny  incense  which 
mingled  with  a  spicy  smell  of  the  red  cedars. 


A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL.  209 

Absorbed  in  reverie,  he  failed  to  notice  how 
the  scattered  clouds  that  had  been  passing 
across  the  sky  all  the  afternoon  were  being 
gradually  re-enforced  by  big  fluffy  cumuli  rolling 
up  from  the  north,  until  a  rumble  overhead  and 
the  rustle  of  a  shower  in  the  trees  aroused  him. 
In  the  center  of  the  grounds  was  an  ancient 
summer-house  standing  amid  a  maze  of  flower 
beds  intersected  by  gravel  walks.  This  was 
the  nearest  shelter,  and,  as  the  rain  began  to 
patter  smartly,  Putnam  pocketed  his  knife, 
turned  up  his  coat  collar,  and  ran  for  it.  Ar 
rived  at  the  garden-house,  he  found  there  a 
group  of  three  persons,  driven  to  harbor  from 
different  parts  of  the  cemetery.  The  shower 
increased  to  a  storm,  the  lattices  were  lashed 
by  the  rain,  and  a  steady  stream  poured  from 
the  eaves.  The  althaea  and  snowberry  bushes 
in  the  flower-plots,  and  even  the  stunted  box- 
edges  along  the  path,  swayed  in  the  wind.  It 
grew  quite  dark  in  the  summer-house,  shaded 
by  two  or  three  old  hemlocks,  and  it  was  only 
by  the  lightning  flashes  that  Putnam  could 
make  out  the  features  of  the  little  company  of 
refugees.  They  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
building,  to  avoid  the  sheets  of  rain  blown  in 
at  the  doors  in  gusts,  huddling  around  a  pump 
that  was  raised  on  a  narrow  stone  platform — 
not  unlike  the  daughters  of  Priam  clustered 
about  the  great  altar  in  the  penetralia  : 

Praecipites  atra  ceu  tempestate  columbae. 
They   consisted   of  a  young  girl,  an  elderly 


210  A    GRAVEYARD   IDYL. 

woman  with  a  trowel  and  watering-pot,  and  a 
workman  in  overalls,  who  carried  a  spade  and 
had  perhaps  been  interrupted  in  digging  a  grave. 
The  platform  around  the  pump  hardly  gave 
standing  room  for  a  fourth.  Putnam  accord 
ingly  took  his  seat  on  a  tool  chest  near  one  of 
the  entrances,  and,  while  the  soft  spray  blew 
through  the  lattices  over  his  face  and  clothes, 
he  watched  the  effect  of  the  lightning  flashes 
on  the  tossing,  dripping  trees  of  the  cemetery 
grounds. 

Soon  a  shout  was  heard  and  down  one  of  the 
gravel  walks,  now  a  miniature  river,  rushed  a 
Newfoundland  dog,  followed  by  a  second  man 
in  overalls.  Both  reached  shelter  soaked  and 
lively.  The  dog  distributed  the  contents  of  his 
fur  over  the  party  by  the  pump,  nosed  inquir 
ingly  about,  and  then  subsided  into  a  corner. 
Second  laborer  exchanged  a  few  words  with 
first  laborer,  and  melted  into  the  general  silence. 
The  slight  flurry  caused  by  their  arrival  was 
only  momentary,  while  outside  the  storm  rose 
higher  and  inside  it  grew  still  darker.  Now 
and  then  someone  said  something  in  a  low 
tone,  addressed  rather  to  himself  than  to  the 
others,  and  lost  in  the  noise  of  the  thunder  and 
rain. 

But  in  spite  of  the  silence  there  seemed  to 
grow  up  out  of  the  situation  a  feeling  of  in 
timacy  between  the  members  of  the  little  com- 
•munity  in  the  summer-house.  The  need  of 
shelter — one  of  the  primitive  needs  of  humanity 
—had  brought  them  naturally  together  and  shut 


A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL.  211 

them  up  "  in  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm." 
In  a  few  minutes,  when  the  shower  should  leave 
off,  their  paths  would  again  diverge,  but  for  the 
time  being  they  were  inmates  and  held  a  house 
hold  relation  to  one  another. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  when  it  began  to 
grow  lighter  and  the  rain  stopped,  and  the  sun 
glanced  out  again  on  the  reeking  earth  and 
saturated  foliage,  conversation  grew  general. 

"  Gracious  sakes  !  "  said  the  woman  with  the 
trowel  and  watering-pot  as  she  glanced  along 
the  winding  canal  that  led  out  from  the  summer- 
house — "  just  see  the  water  in  them  walks  ! " 

"  Gol !  'tis  awful !  "  murmured  the  Irishman 
with  the  spade.  "  There  '11  be  a  fut  of  water  in 
the  grave,  and  the  ould  mon  to  be  buried  the 
morning !  " 

"  Ah,  they  had  a  right  to  put  off  the  funeral," 
said  the  other  workman,  "and  not  be  giving 
the  poor  corp  his  death  of  cold." 

"  Tis  warrum  enough  there  where  the  ould 
mon's  gone,  but  'tis  cold  working  for  a  poor  lad 
like  mesilf  in  the  bottom  of  a  wet  grave.  Gol ! 
'tis  like  a  dreen."  With  that  he  shouldered  his 
spade  and  waded  reluctantly  away. 

Second  laborer  paused  to  light  his  dhudeen, 
and  then  disappeared  in  the  opposite  direction, 
his  Newfoundland  taking  quite  naturally  to  the 
deepest  puddles  in  their  course. 

"  Hath  this  fellow  no  feeling  of  his  busi 
ness  ?  "  asked  Putnam,  rising  and  sauntering 
up  to  the  pump.  The  question  was  meant  more 
for  the  younger  than  the  elder  of  the  t\vo 


212  A    GRAVE  YARD  IDYL. 

women,  but  the  former  paid  no  heed  to  it,  and 
the  latter,  by  way  of  answer,  merely  glanced  at 
him  suspiciously  and  said  "  H'm  ! "  She  was 
unlocking  the  tool-chest  on  which  he  had  been 
sitting,  and  now  raised  the  lid,  stowed  away 
her  trowel  and  watering-pot,  locked  the  chest 
again  and  put  the  key  in  her  pocket  with  the 
remark,  "  I  guess  I  haint  got  any  more  use 
for  a  sprinkle-pot  to-day." 

"  It  would  be  rather  superfluous,"  said  Put 
nam. 

The  old  woman  looked  at  him  still  more  dis 
trustfully,  and  then,  drawing  up  her  skirts, 
showed  to  his  great  astonishment  a  pair  of 
india-rubber  boots,  in  which  she  stumped  away 
through  the  water  and  the  mud,  leaving  in  the 
latter  colossal  tracks  which  speedily  became  as 
pond-holes  in  the  shallower  bed  of  the  stream. 
The  younger  woman  stood  at  the  door,  gather 
ing  her  dress  about  her  ankles  and  gazing  irreso 
lutely  at  these  frightful  vestigia,  which  gauged 
all  too  accurately  the  depth  of  the  mud  and  the 
surface-water  above  it. 

"  These  look  like  the  fossil  bird-tracks  in  the 
Connecticut  Valley  sandstone,"  said  Putnam, 
following  the  direction  of  her  eyes. 

These  were  very  large  and  black.  She  turned 
them  slowly  on  the  speaker,  a  tallish  young 
fellow  with  a  face  expressive  chiefly  of  a  good- 
natured  audacity  and  an  alertness  for  whatever 
in  the  way  of  amusement  might  come  within 
range.  Her  look  rested  on  him  indifferently, 
and  then  turned  back  to  the  wet  gravel. 


A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL.  213 

Putnam  studied  for  a  moment  the  back  of  her 
head  and  her  figure,  which  was  girlishly  slender 
and  clad  in  gray.  "  How  extraordinary,"  he 
resumed,  "  that  she  should  happen  to  have 
rubber  boots  on  !  " 

"She  keeps  them  in  the  tool-chest.  The 
cemetery  man  gives  her  a  key,"  she  replied 
after  a  pause,  and  as  if  reluctantly.  Her  voice 
was  very  low  and  she  had  the  air  of  talking  to 
herself. 

"  Isn't  that  a  rather  queer  place  for  a  ward 
robe?  I  wonder  if  she  keeps  anything  else 
there  besides  the  boots  and  the  trowel  and  the 
'  sprinkle-pot '  ?  " 

"  I  believe  she  has  an  umbrella  and  some 
flower  seeds." 

"  Now,  if  she  only  had  a  Swedish  cooking- 
box  and  a  patent  camp-lounge,"  said  Putnam 
laughing,  "  she  could  keep  house  here  in  regu 
lar  style." 

"  She  spends  a  great  deal  of  time  here :  her 
children  are  all  here,  she  told  me." 

"Well,  it's  an  odd  taste  to  live  in  a  bury- 
ing-ground,  but  one  might  do  worse  perhaps. 
There's  nothing  like  getting  accustomed  grad 
ually  to  what  you've  got  to  come  to.  And  then 
if  one  must  select  a  cemetery  for  a  residence, 
this  isn't  a  bad  choice.  Have  you  noticed  what 
quaint  old  ways  they  have  about  it  ?  At  sunset 
the  sexton  rings  a  big  bell  that  hangs  in  the 
arch  over  the  gateway :  he  told  me  he  had  done 
it  every  day  for  twenty  years.  It's  not  done,  I 
believe,  on  the  principle  of  firing  a  sunset  gun, 


214  A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL. 

but  to  let  people  walking  in  the  grounds  know 
the  gate  is  to  be  shut.  There's  a  high  stone 
wall,  you  know,  and  somebody  might  get  shut 
in  all  night.  Think  of  having  to  spend  the 
night  here  !  " 

"  I  have  spent  the  night  here  often,"  she  an 
swered,  again  in  an  absent  voice  and  as  if  mur 
muring  to  herself. 

"  You  have  ?  "  exclaimed  Putnam.  "  Oh, 
you  slept  in  the  tool-chest,  I  suppose,  on  the 
old  lady's  shake-down." 

She  was  silent,  and  he  began  to  have  a  weird 
suspicion  that  she  had  spoken  in  earnest.  "  This 
is  getting  interesting,"  he  said  to  himself;  and 
then  aloud,  "  You  must  have  seen  queer  sights. 
Of  course,  when  the  clock  struck  twelve,  all  the 
ghosts  popped  out  and  sat  on  their  respective 
tombstones.  The  ghosts  in  this  cemetery  must 
be  awfully  old  fellows.  It  doesn't  look  as  if 
they  had  buried  anyone  here  for  a  hundred  and 
thirty-five  years.  I've  often  thought  it  would 
be  a  good  idea  to  inscribe  Complet  over  the 
gate,  as  they  do  on  a  Paris  omnibus." 

"You  speak  very  lightly  of  the  dead,"  said 
the  young  girl  in  a  tone  of  displeasure  and 
looking  directly  at  him. 

Putnam  felt  badly  snubbed.  He  was  about 
to  attempt  an  explanation,  but  her  manner 
indicated  that  she  considered  the  conversation 
at  an  end.  She  gathered  up  her  skirts  and 
prepared  to  leave  the  summer-house.  The 
water  had  soaked  away  somewhat  into  the 
gravel. 


A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL.  215 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Putnam,  advancing  des 
perately  and  touching  his  hat,  "  but  I  notice 
that  your  shoes  are  thin  and  the  ground  is 
still  very  wet.  I'm  going  right  over  to  High 
Street,  and  if  I  can  send  you  a  carriage  or  any 
thing " 

"  Thank  you,  no  :  I  shan't  need  it ;  "  and  she 
stepped  off  hastily  down  the  walk. 

Putnam  looked  after  her  till  a  winding  of  the 
path  took  her  out  of  sight,  and  then  started 
slowly  homeward.  "  What  the  deuce  could  she 
mean,"  he  pondered  as  he  walked  along,  "  about 
spending  the  night  in  the  cemetery  ?  Can  she 
— no  she  can't  be  the  gatekeeper's  daughter  and 
live  in  the  gate-house  ?  " 

His  mother  and  his  maiden  aunt,  who  with 
himself  made  up  the  entire  household,  received 
him   with   small   scoldings  and   twitterings  of 
anxiety.    They  felt  his  wet  clothes,  prophesied 
a  return   of  his   fever,  and   forced  him   to   go 
immediately  to  bed,  where   they  administered 
hot  drinks  and  toast  soaked  in  scalded  milk. 
He  lay  awake  a  long  time,  somewhat  fatigued 
and  excited.     In  his  feeble  condition  and  in  the 
monotony  which  his  life  had  assumed  of  late, 
the  trifling  experience  of  the  afternoon  took 
on  the   full  proportions  of  an  adventure.     He 
thought  it  over  again  and  again,  but  finally  fell 
asleep  and  slept  soundly.    He  awoke  once,  just 
at  dawn,  and  lay  looking  through  his  window 
at  a  rosy  cloud  which  reposed  upon  an  infinite 
depth  of  sky,  motionless  as  if  sculptured,  against 
the  blue.     A   light  morning  wind   stirred   the 


216  A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL. 

curtains  and  the  scent  of  mignonette  floated  in 
from  the  dewy  garden.  He  had  that  confused 
sense  of  anticipation  so  common  in  moments 
between  waking  and  sleeping,  when  some  new, 
pleasant  thing  has  happened,  or  is  to  happen  on 
the  morrow,  which  the  memory  is  too  drowsy 
to  present  distinctly.  Of  this  pleasant,  indis 
tinct  promise  that  auroral  cloud  seemed  some 
how  the  omen  or  symbol,  and  watching  it  he 
fell  asleep  again.  When  he  next  awoke,  the  sun 
light  of  mid-forenoon  was  flooding  the  cham 
ber,  and  he  heard  his  mother's  voice  below 
stairs  as  she  sang  at  her  sewing. 

In  the  afternoon  he  started  on  his  customary 
walk,  and  his  feet  led  him  involuntarily  to  the 
cemetery.  As  he  traversed  the  path  along  the 
edge  of  the  hill,  he  saw  in  one  of  the  grave  lots 
the  heroine  of  his  yesterday's  encounter,  and 
a  sudden  light  broke  in  upon  him  :  she  was 
a  mourner.  And  yet  how  happened  it  that  she 
wore  no  black  ?  There  was  a  wooden  railing 
round  the  enclosure,  and  within  it  a  single 
mound  and  a  tombstone  of  fresh  marble.  A 
few  cut  flowers  lay  on  the  grave.  She  was 
sitting  in  a  low  wicker  chair,  her  hands  folded 
in  her  lap,  and  her  eyes  fixed  vacantly  on  the 
western  hills.  Putnam  $now  took  closer  note  of 
her  face.  It  was  of  a  brown  paleness.  The  air 
of  hauteur,  given  it  by  the  purity  of  the  profile 
and  the  almost  insolent  stare  of  the  large  black 
eyes,  was  contradicted  by  the  sweet,  irresolute 
curves  of  the  mouth.  At  present  her  look 
expressed  only  a  profound  apathy.  As  he  ap- 


A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL.  217 

preached,  her  eyes  turned  toward  him,  but 
seemingly  without  recognition.  Diffidence  was 
not  among  Tom  Putnam's  failings.  He  felt 
drawn  by  an  unconquerable  sympathy  and 
attraction  to  speak  to  her,  even  at  the  risk  of 
intruding  upon  the  sacreclness  of  her  grief. 

"  Excuse  me,  miss,"  he  began,  stopping  in 
front  of  her,  "  but  I  want  to  apologize  for  what 
I  said  yesterday  about— about  the  cemetery.  It 
must  have  seemed  very  heartless  to  you  ;  but  I 
didn't  know  that  you  were  in  mourning  when  I 
spoke  as  I  did." 

"  I  have  forgotten  what  you  said,"  she  an 
swered. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have,"  said  Putnam  rather 
fatuously.  There  seemed  really  nothing  fur 
ther  to  say,  but  as  he  lingered  for  a  moment 
before  turning  away,  a  perverse  recollection  sur 
prised  him,  and  he  laughed  out  loud. 

She  cast  a  look  of  strong  indignation  at  him, 
and  rose  to  her  feet. 

"  Oh,  I  ask  your  pardon  a  thousand  times," 
he  exclaimed  reddening  violently.  "  Please 
don't  think  that  I  was  laughing  at  anything  to 
do  with  you.  The  fact  is,  that  last  idiotic  speech 
of  mine  reminded  me  of  something  that  hap 
pened  day  before  yesterday.  I've  been  sick, 
and  I  met  a  friend  on  the  street  who  said,  '  I'm 
glad  you're  better' ;  and  I  answered,  '  I'm  glad 
that  you're  glad  that  I'm  better';  and  then  he 
said,  '  I'm  glad  that  you're  glad  that  I'm  glad 
that  you're  better  ' — like  the  House  that  Jack 
Built,  you  know — and  it  came  over  me  all  of  a 


218  A    GKAFEYARD  IDYL. 

sudden  that  the  only  way  to  continue  our  con 
versation  gracefully  would  be  for  you  to  say, 
'I'm  glad  that  you're  glad  that  I've  forgotten 
what  you  said  yesterday.'  " 

She  had  listened  impatiently  to  this  naive  and 
somewhat  incoherent  explanation,  and  she  now 
said,  "  I  wish  you  would  go  away.  You  see 
that  I  am  alone  here  and  in  trouble.  I  can't 
imagine  what  motive  you  can  have  for  annoying 
me  in  this  way,"  her  eyes  filling  with  angry  tears. 

Putnam  was  too  much  pained  by  the  vehe 
mence  of  her  language  to  attempt  any  immediate 
reply.  His  first  impulse  was  to  bow  and  retire 
without  more  words.  But  a  pertinacity  which 
formed  one  of  his  strongest  though  perhaps 
least  amiable  traits  countermanded  his  impulse, 
and  he  said  gravely,  "  Certainly,  I  will  go  at 
once,  but  in  justice  to  myself  I  must  first  assure 
you  that  I  didn't  mean  to  intrude  upon  you  or 
annoy  you  in  any  way." 

She  sank  down  into  her  chair  and  averted 
her  face. 

"  You  say,"  he  continued,  "  that  you  are  in 
trouble,  and  I  beg  you  to  believe  that  I  respect 
your  affliction,  and  that  when  I  spoke  to  you 
just  now  it  was  simply  to  ask  pardon  for  having 
hurt  your  feelings  yesterday,  without  meaning 
to,  by  my  light  mention  of  the  dead.  I've  been 
too  near  death's  door  myself  lately  to  joke  about 
it."  He  paused,  but  she  remained  silent.  "  I'm 
going  away  now,"  he  said  softly.  "  Won't  you 
say  that  you  excuse  me,  and  that  you  haven't 
any  hard  feelings  toward  me  ?  " 


A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL.  219 

"Yes,  oh,  yes,"  she  answered  wearily;  "I 
have  no  feelings.  Please  go  away." 

Putnam  raised  his  hat  respectfully,  and  went 
off  down  the  pathway.  On  reaching  the  little 
gate-house,  he  sat  down  to  rest  on  a  bench 
before  the  door.  The  gatekeeper  was  standing 
on  the  threshold  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  smoking 
a  pipe.  "  A  nice  day  after  the  rain,  sir,"  he 
began. 

"  Yes,  it  is." 

"  Have  you  any  folks  here,  sir  ?  " 

"No;  no  one.  But  I  come  here  sometimes 
for  a  stroll." 

"  Yes,  I've  seen  you  about.  Well,  it's  a  nice, 
quiet  place  for  a  walk,  but  the  grounds  aint 
kep'  up  quite  the  shape  they  used  to  be ;  there 
aint  so  much  occasion  for  it.  Seems  as  though 
the  buryin'  business  was  dull,  like  pretty  much 
everything  else  nowadays.'' 

"  Yes,  that's  so,"  replied  Putnam  absently. 

The  gatekeeper  spat  reflectively  upon  the 
center  of  the  doorstep,  and  resumed  :  "There's 
some  that  comes  here  quite  reg'lar,  but  they 
mostly  have  folks  here.  There's  old  Mrs.  Lyon 
comes  very  steady,  and  there's  young  Miss 
Pinckney.  She's  one  of  the  most  reg'lar." 

"  Is  that  the  young  lady  in  gray,  with  black 
eyes  ?  " 

"  That's  her." 

"  Who  is  she  in  mourning  for?  " 

"  Well,  she  aint  exactly  in  mourning.  I  guess, 
from  what  they  say,  she  aint  got  the  money  for 
black  bunnets  and  dresses,  poor  gal !  But  it's 


220  A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL. 

her  brother  that's  buried  here — last  April.  He 
was  in  the  hospital  learning  the  doctor's  busi 
ness  when  he  was  took  down." 

"  In  the  hospital  ?  Was  he  from  the  South, 
do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Well,  that  I  can't  say :  like  enough  he 
was." 

"  Did  you  say  that  she  is  poor  ?  " 

"  So  they  was  telling  me  at  the  funeral.  It 
was  a  mighty  poor  funeral  too — not  more'n 
a  couple  of  hacks.  But  you  can't  tell  much 
from  that,  with  the  fashions  nowadays.  Some 
of  the  richest  folks  buries  private-like.  You 
don't  see  no  such  funerals  now  as  they  had  ten 
years  back.  I've  seen  fifty  kerridges  to  onst 
a-comin'  in  that  gate,"  waving  his  pipe  impres 
sively  toward  that  piece  of  architecture,  "  and 
that  was  when  kerridge-hire  was  half  again 
as  high  as  it  is  now.  She  must  have  spent  a 
good  sum  in  greenhouse  flowers,  though : 
fresh  bouquets  most  every  day  she  keeps 
a-fetchin'." 

"  Well,  good-day,"  said  Putnam,  starting  off. 

"  Good-day,  sir." 

Putnam  had  himself  just  completed  his 
studies  at  the  medical  college  when  attacked 
by  fever,  and  he  now  recalled  somewhat 
vaguely  a  student  of  the  name  of  Pinckney, 
and  remembered  to  have  heard  that  he  was 
a  Southerner.  The  gatekeeper's  story  increased 
the  interest  which  he  was  beginning  to  feel  in 
his  new  acquaintance,  and  he  resolved  to  follow 
up  his  inauspicious  beginnings  to  a  better  issue. 


A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL.  221 

He  knew  that  great  delicacy  would  be  needed 
in  making  further  approaches,  and  so  decided 
to  keep  out  of  her  sight  for  a  time.  In  the 
course  of  the  next  few  clays  he  ascertained,  by 
visits  to  the  cemetery  and  talks  with  the  keeper, 
that  she  now  seldom  visited  her  brother's  grave 
in  the  forenoon,  although  during  the  first 
month  after  his  death  she  had  spent  all  her 
days  and  some  of  her  nights  beside  it. 

"  I  hadn't  the  heart,  sir,  to  turn  her  out  at 
sundown,  accordin'  to  the  regulations;  so  I'd 
leave  the  gate  kinder  half  on  the  jar,  and  she'd 
slip  out  when  she  had  a  mind  to." 

Putnam  read  the  inscription  on  the  tomb 
stone,  which  ran  as  follows  : 

To  the  Memory  of 

HENRY  PINCKNEY, 
Born  October  2gth,  1852. 
Died  April  27th,  187-; 

and  under  this  the  text : 

If  thou  have  borne  him  hence,  tell  me  where 
thou  hast  laid  him. 

He  noticed  with  a  sudden  twinge  of  pity  that 
the  flowers  on  the  grave,  though  freshly  picked 
every  day,  were  wild  flowers — mostly  the  com 
mon  field  varieties,  with  now  and  then  a  rarer 
blossom  from  wood  or  swamp,  and  now  and 
then  a  garden  flower.  He  gathered  from  this 
that  the  sister's  purse  was  running  low,  and 
that  she  spent  her  mornings  in  collecting 
flowers  outside  the  city.  His  imagination 


222  A    GRAVEYARD   IDYL. 

dwelt  tenderly  upon  her  slim,  young  figure  and 
mourning  face  passing  through  far-away  fields 
and  along  the  margins  of  lonely  creeks  in 
search  of  some  new  bloom  which  grudging 
Nature  might  yield  her  for  her  sorrowful  needs. 
Meanwhile  he  determined  that  the  shrine  of 
her  devotion  should  not  want  richer  offerings. 
There  was  a  hothouse  on  the  way  from  his 
home  to  the  cemetery,  and  he  now  stopped 
there  occasionally  of  a  morning  and  bought  a 
few  roses  to  lay  upon  the  mound.  This  con 
tinued  for  a  fortnight,  He  noticed  that  his 
offerings  were  left  to  wither  undisturbed, 
though  the  little  bunches  of  field  flowers  were 
daily  renewed  as  before. 

In  spite  of  the  funereal  nature  of  his  occupa 
tion,  his  spirits  in  these  days  were  extraor 
dinarily  high.  His  life,  so  lately  escaped  from 
the  shadows  of  death,  seemed  to  enjoy  a 
rejuvenescence  and  to  put  forth  fresh  blossoms 
in  the  summer  air.  As  he  sat  under  the  cedars 
and  listened  to  the  buzzing  of  the  flies  that 
frequented  the  shade,  the  unending  sound  grew 
to  be  an  assurance  of  earthly  immortality.  His 
new  lease  of  existence  prolonged  itself  into  a 
fee  simple,  and  even  in  presence  of  the  monu 
ments  of  decay  his  future,  filled  with  bright 
hazy  dreams,  melted  softly  into  eternity.  But 
one  morning,  as  he  approached  the  little  grave- 
lot  with  his  accustomed  offerings,  he  looked  up 
and  saw  the  young  girl  standing  before  him. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  flowers  in  his  hand. 
He  colored  guiltily  and  stood  still,  like  a  boy 


A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL.  223 

caught  robbing  an  orchard.  She  looked  both 
surprised  and  embarrassed,  but  said  at  once, 
"  If  you  are  the  gentleman  who  has  been  put 
ting  flowers  on  my  brother's  grave,  I  thank  you 
for  his  sake " 

She  paused,  and  he  broke  in  :  "  I  ought  to 
explain,  Miss  Pinckney,  that  I  have  a  better 
right  than  you  think,  perhaps,  to  bring  these 
flowers  here.  I  was  a  fellow-student  with  your 
brother  in  the  medical  school." 

Her  expression  changed  immediately.  "  Oh, 
did  you  know  my  brother  ?  "  she  asked  eagerly. 

He  felt  like  a  wretched  hypocrite  as  he 
answered,  "  Yes,  I  knew  him,  though  not  in 
timately  exactly.  But  I  took— I  take— a  very 
strong  interest  in  him." 

''Everyone  loved  Henry  who  knew  him," 
she  said,  "  but  his  class  have  all  been  graduated 
and  gone  away,  and  he  made  few  friends,  be 
cause  he  was  so  shy.  No  one  comes  near  him 
now  but  me." 

He  was  silent.  She  walked  to  the  grave  and 
he  followed,  and  they  stood  there  without 
speaking.  It  did  not  seem  to  occur  to  her  to 
ask  why  he  had  not  mentioned  her  brother  at 
their  former  interview.  She  was  evidently  of 
an  unsuspecting  nature,  or  else  all  other  im 
pressions  were  forgotten  and  absorbed  in  the 
one  thought  of  her  bereavement.  After  a 
glance  at  her,  Putnam  ventured  to  lay  his  roses 
reverently  upon  the  mound.  She  held  in  her 
hand  a  few  wild  flowers  just  gathered.  These 
she  kissed,  and  dropped  them  also  on  the  grave. 


224  A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL. 

He  understood  the  meaning  of  her  gesture  and 
was  deeply  moved. 

"  Poor,  little,  dull-colored  things,"  she  said, 
looking  down  at  them. 

"  They  are  a  thousand  times  more  beautiful 
than  mine,"  he  exclaimed  passionately  ;  "  I  am 
ashamed  of  those  heartless  affairs  :  anybody 
can  buy  them." 

"Oh,  no.  My  brother  was  very  fond  of 
roses.  Perhaps  you  remember  his  taste  for 
them  ?  "  she  inquired  innocently. 

"  I — I  don't  think  he  ever  alluded  to  them. 
The  atmosphere  of  the  medical  college  was  not 
very  aesthetic,  you  know." 

"  At  first  I  used  to  bring  greenhouse 
flowers,"  she  continued,  without  much  heed 
ing  his  answer,  "but  lately  I  haven't  been 
able  to  afford  them  except  on  Sundays.  Sun 
days  I  bring  white  ones  from  the  green 
house." 

She  had  seated  herself  in  her  wicker  chair, 
and  Putnam,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  sat 
down  on  the  low  railing  near  her.  He  observed, 
among  the  wild  plants  that  she  had  gathered, 
the  mottled  leaves  and  waxy  blossoms  of  the 
pipsissewa  and  its  cousin  the  shinleaf. 

"  You  have  been  a  long  way  to  get  some  of 
those,"  he  said.  "  That  pipsissewa  grows  in 
hemlock  woods,  and  the  nearest  are  several 
miles  from  here." 

"  I  don't  know  their  names.  I  found  them 
in  a  wood  where  I  used  to  walk  sometimes  with 
my  brother.  He  knew  all  their  names.  I  went 


A    GRATE  YARD  IDYL.  225 

there  very  early  this  morning,  when  the  dew 
was  on  them." 

" '  Flowers  that  have  on  them  the  cold  dews 
of  the  night  are  strewings  fittest  for  graves,' " 
said  Putnam  in  an  undertone. 

Her  face  had  assumed  its  usual  absent  ex 
pression,  and  she  seemed  busy  with  some 
memory,  and  unconscious  of  his  presence.  He 
recalled  the  latter  to  her  by  rising  and  saying, 
"  I  will  bid  you  good-morning  now,  but  I  hope 
you  will  let  me  come  and  sit  here  sometimes  if 
it  doesn't  disturb  you.  I  have  been  very  sick 
myself  lately  :  I  was  near  dying  of  the  typhoid 
fever.  I  think  it  does  me  good  to  come  here." 

"  Did  you  have  the  typhoid  ?  My  brother 
died  of  the  typhoid." 

"  May  I  come  sometimes  ?  " 

"  You  may  come  if  you  wish  to  visit  Henry. 
But  please  don't  bring  any  more  of  those  ex 
pensive  flowers.  I  suppose  it  is  selfish  in  me, 
but  I  can't  bear  to  have  any  of  his  friends  do 
more  for  him  than  I  can." 

"  I  won't  bring  any  more,  of  course,  if  it 
troubles  you,  and  I  thank  you  very  much  for 
letting  me  come.  Good-morning,  Miss  Pinck- 
ney."  He  bowed  and  walked  away. 

Putnam  availed  himself  discreetly  of  the  per 
mission  given.  He  came  occasionally  of  an 
afternoon,  and  sat  for  an  hour  at  a  time. 
Usuajly  she  said  little.  Her  silence  appeared 
to  proceed  not  from  reserve,  but  from  dejec 
tion.  Sometimes  she  spoke  of  her  brother. 
Putnam  learned  that  he  had  been  her  only 


226  A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL. 

near  relative.  Their  parents  had  died  in  her 
childhood,  and  she  had  come  North  with  her 
brother  when  he  entered  the  medical  school. 
From  something  that  she  once  said,  Putnam 
inferred  that  her  brother  had  owned  an  annuity 
which  died  with  him,  and  that  she  had  been  left 
with  little  or  nothing.  They  had  few  acquaint 
ances  in  the  North,  almost  none  in  the  city. 
An  aunt  in  the  South  had  offered  her  a  home, 
and  she  was  going  there  in  the  fall.  She 
looked  forward  with  dread  to  the  time  of  her 
departure. 

"  It  will  be  so  cruel,"  she  said,  "to  leave  my 
poor  boy  all  alone  here  among  strangers,  and  I 
never  away  from  him  before." 

"  Don't  think  of  it  now,"  he  answered,  "  and 
when  you  are  gone  I  will  come  here  often  and 
see  to  everything." 

Her  bereavement  had  evidently  benumbed  all 
her  faculties  and  left  her  with  a  slight  hold  on 
life.  She  had  no  hopes  or  wishes  for  the  future. 
In  alluding  to  her  brother  she  confused  her 
tenses,  speaking  of  him  sometimes  in  the  past, 
and  sometimes  in  the  present  as  of  one  still 
alive.  Putnam  felt  that  in  a  girl  of  her  age 
this  mood  was  too  unnatural  to  last,  and  he 
reckoned  not  unreasonably  on  the  reaction 
that  must  come  when  her  youth  began  again 
to  assert  its  rights.  He  was  now  thoroughly 
in  love,  and  as  he  sat  watching  her  beautiful, 
abstracted  face,  he  found  it  hard  to  keep  back 
some  expression  of  tenderness.  Often,  too,  it 
was  difficult  for  him  to  tone  down  his  spirits  to 


A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL.  227 

the  proper  pitch  of  respectful  sympathy  with 
her  grief.  His  existence  was  golden  with  new 
found  life  and  hope;  into  the  shadow  that 
covered  hers  he  could  not  enter.  He  could 
only  endeavor  to  draw  her  out  into  the  sunshine 
once  more. 

One  day  the  two  were  sitting,  as  usual,  in 
silence  or  speaking  but  rarely.  It  was  a  day  in 
the  very  core  of  summer,  and  the  life  of  Nature 
was  at  its  flood.  The  shadows  of  the  trees 
rested  so  heavy  and  motionless  on  the  grass 
that  they  appeared  to  sink  into  it  and  weigh  it 
down  like  palpable  substances. 

"  I  feel,"  said  Putnam  suddenly,  "as  though 
I  should  live  forever." 

"  Did  you  ever  doubt  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Oh,  I  mean  here— in  the  body.  I  can't 
conceive  of  death  or  of  a  spiritual  existence  on 
such  a  day  as  this." 

"  There  is  nothing  here  to  live  for,"  she  said 
wearily.  Presently  she  added,  "  This  hot  glare 
makes  me  sick.  I  wish  those  men  would  stop 
hammering  on  the  bridge.  I  wish  I  could  die 
and  get  away  into  the  dark." 

Putnam  paused  before  replying.  He  had 
never  heard  her  speak  so  impatiently.  Was  the 
revulsion  coming  ?  Was  she  growing  tired  of 
sorrow  ?  After  a  minute  he  said,  "  Ah,  you 
don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  a  convalescent  and 
lie  for  months  in  a  darkened  room  listening  to 
the  hand-organ  man  and  the  scissors-grinder, 
and  the  fellow  that  goes  through  the  streets 
hallooing  '  Cash  paid  for  rags  ! '  It's  like  hav- 


228  A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL. 

ing  a  new  body  to  get  the  use  of  your  limbs 
again  and  come  out  into  the  sunshine." 

"  Were  you  very  sick  ? "  she  inquired  with 
some  show  of  interest. 

He  remembered  with  some  mortification  that 
he  had  told  her  so  once  or  twice  before.  She 
had  apparently  forgotten  it.  "  Yes,  I  nearly 
died." 

"  Were  you  glad  to  recover  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  can't  remember  that  I  had  any  feel 
ings  in  particular  when  I  first  struck  the  up-track. 
It  was  hard  work  fighting  for  life,  and  I  don't 
think  I  cared  much  one  way  or  the  other.  But 
when  I  got  well  enough  to  sit  up  it  began  to 
grow  interesting.  I  used  to  sit  at  the  window 
in  a  very  infantile  frame  of  mind  and  watch 
everything  that  went  by.  It  wasn't  a  very  rowdy 
life,  as  the  prisoner  in  solitary  confinement  said 
to  Dickens.  We  live  in  a  back  street,  where 
there's  not  much  passing.  The  advent  of  the 
baker's  cart  used  to  be  the  chief  excitement. 
It  was  painted  red  and  yellow,  and  he  baked 
very  nice  leaf-cookies.  My  mother  would  hang 
a  napkin  in  the  door-knocker  when  she  wanted 
him  to  stop  ;  and  as  I  couldn't  see  the  knocker 
from  my  window,  I  used  to  make  bets  with 
Dummy  as  to  whether  the  wagon  would  stop  or 
not." 

"  Your  mother  is  living,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  my  father  died  when  I  was  a  boy." 

She  asked  no  further  questions,  but  a  few 
minutes  after  rose  and  said, "  I  think  I  will  go 
now.  Good-evening." 


A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL.  229 

He  had  never  before  outstayed  her.  He 
looked  at  his  watch  and  found  that  it  was  only 
half-past  four. 

:<  I  hope,"  he  began  anxiously,  "  that  you  are 
not  feeling  sick  :  you  spoke  just  now  of  being 
oppressed  by  the  heat.  Excuse  me  for  staying 
so  long." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  answered,  "  I'm  not  sick.  I 
reckon  I  need  a  little  rest.  Good-evening." 

Putnam  lingered  after  she  was  gone.  He 
found  his  way  to  his  old  bench  under  the  cedars 
and  sat  there  for  awhile.  He  had  not  occupied 
this  seat  since  his  first  meeting  with  Miss 
Pinckney  in  the  summer-house,  and  the  initials 
which  he  had  whittled  on  its  edge  impressed 
him  as  belonging  to  some  bygone  stage  of  his 
history.  This  was  the  first  time  that  she  had 
questioned  him  about  himself.  His  sympathy 
had  won  her  confidence,  but  she  had  treated 
him  hitherto  in  an  impersonal  way,  as  some 
thing  tributary  to  her  brother's  memory,  like 
his  tombstone  or  the  flowers  on  his  grave.  The 
suspicion  that  he  was  seeking  her  for  her  own 
sake  had  not,  so  far  as  Putnam  could  discover, 
ever  entered  her  thoughts. 

But  in  the  course  of  their  next  few  interviews 
there  came  a  change  in  her  behavior.  The 
simplicity  and  unconsciousness  of  her  sorrow 
had  become  complicated  with  some  other  feel 
ing.  He  caught  her  looking  at  him  narrowly 
once  or  twice,  and  when  he  looked  hard  at  her 
there  was  visible  in  her  manner  a  soft  agita 
tion — something  which  in  a  girl  of  more  san- 


230  A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL. 

guine  complexion  might  have  been  interpreted 
as  a  blush.  She  sometimes  suffered  herself  to 
be  coaxed  a  little  way  into  talking  of  things  re 
mote  from  the  subject  of  her  sorrow.  Occa 
sionally  she  questioned  Putnam  shyly  about 
himself,  and  he  needed  but  slight  encourage 
ment  to  wax  confidential.  She  listened  quietly 
to  his  experiences,  and  even  smiled  now  and 
then  at  something  that  he  said.  His  heart  beat 
high  with  triumph:  he  fancied  that  he  was 
leading  her  slowly  up  out  of  the  Valley  of  the 
Shadow  of  Death. 

But  the  upward  path  was  a  steep  one.  She 
had  many  sudden  relapses  and  changes  of 
mood.  Putnam  divined  that  she  felt  her  grief 
loosening  its  tight  hold  on  her  and  slipping 
away,  and  that  she  clung  to  it  as  a  consecrated 
thing  with  a  morbid  fear  of  losing  it  altogether. 
There  were  days  when  her  demeanor  betokened 
a  passionate  self-reproach,  as  though  she 
accused  herself  secretly  of  wronging  her  brother 
and  profaning  his  tomb  in  allowing  more  cheer 
ful  thoughts  to  blunt  the  edge  of  her  bereave 
ment.  He  remarked  also  that  her  eyes  were 
often  red  from  weeping.  There  sometimes 
mingled  with  her  remorse  a  plain  resentment 
toward  himself.  At  such  times  she  would 
hardly  speak  to  him,  and  the  slightest  gayety 
or  even  cheerfulness  on  his  part  was  received 
as  downright  heartlessness.  He  made  a  prac 
tice,  therefore,  of  withdrawing  at  once  when 
ever  he  found  her  in  this  frame  of  mind. 

One  day  they  had  been  sitting  long  together. 


A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL.  231 

She  had  appeared  unusually  content,  but  had 
spoken  little.  The  struggle  in  her  heart  had 
perhaps  worn  itself  out  for  the  present,  and  she 
had  yielded  to  the  warm  current  of  life  and 
hope  which  was  bearing  her  back  into  the  sun 
shine.  Suddenly  the  -elderly  woman  who  had 
formed  one  of  the  company  in  the  summer- 
house,  on  the  day  of  the  thunder  storm,  passed 
along  the  walk  with  her  trowel  and  watering- 
pot.  She  nodded  to  Miss  Pinckney,  and  then 
pausing  opposite  the  pair,  glanced  sharply  from 
one  to  the  other,  smiled  significantly  and  passed 
on.  This  trifling  incident  aroused  Putnam's 
companion  from  her  reverie:  she  looked  at 
him  with  a  troubled  expression  and  said, 
"  Do  you  think  you  ought  to  come  here  so 
much  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  How  well  did  you  know  my 
brother  Henry  ?  " 

"  If  I  didn't  know  him  so  very  intimately  when 
he  was  living,  I  feel  that  I  know  him  well  now 
from  all  that  you  have  told  me  about  him. 
And,  if  you  will  pardon  my  saying  so,  I  feel 
that  I  know  his  sister  a  little  too,  and  have 
some  title  to  her  acquaintance." 

"  You  have  been  very  kind,  and  I  am  grate 
ful  for  it,  but  perhaps  you  ought  not  to  come  so 
much." 

"  I'm  sorry  if  I  have  come  too  much,"  rejoined 
Putnam  bitterly,  "  but  I  shall  not  come  much 
more.  I  am  going  away  soon.  The  doctor 
says  I  am  not  getting  along  fast  enough  and 


232  A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL. 

must  have  change  of  air.  He  has  ordered  me 
to  the  mountains." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  minutes.  He 
was  looking  moodily  down  at  the  turf,  pulling 
a  blade  of  grass  now  and  then,  biting  it,  and 
throwing  it  away. 

"  I  thank  you  very  much  for  your  sympathy 
and  kindness,"  she  said  at  length,  rising  from 
her  chair ;  "  and  I  hope  you  will  recover  very 
fast  in  the  mountains.  Good-by." 

She  extended  her  hand,  which  Putnam  took 
and  held.  It  was  trembling  perceptibly. 
"  Wait  a  moment,"  he  said.  "  Before  I  go  I 
should  like  to  show  some  little  mark  of  respect 
to  your  brother's  memory.  Won't  you  meet 
rne  at  the  greenhouse  to-morrow  morning — say 
about  nine  o'clock — and  select  a  few  flowers  ? 
They  will  be  your  flowers,  you  know — your  of 
fering." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,"!  will;  and  I  thank 
you  again  for  him." 

The  next  morning  at  the  appointed  hour 
Putnam  descended  the  steps  into  the  green 
house.  The  gardener  had  just  watered  the 
plants.  A  rich  steam  exhaled  from  the  earth 
and  clouded  all  the  glass,  and  the  moist  air  was 
heavy  with  the  breath  of  heliotropes  and  roses. 
A  number  of  butterflies  were  flying  about,  and 
at  the  end  of  a  many-colored  perspective  of 
leaves  and  blossoms,  Putnam  saw  Miss  Pinckney 
hovering  around  a  collection  of  tropical  orchids. 
The  gardener  had  passed  on  into  an  adjoining 
hothouse,  and  no  sound  broke  the  quiet  but  the 


A    GRAVEYARD   IDYL.  233 

dripping  of  water  in  a  tank  of  aquatic  plants. 
The  fans  of  the  palms  and  the  long  fronds  of 
the  tree-ferns  hung  as  still  as  in  some  painting 
of  an  Indian  isle. 

She  greeted  him  with  a  smile  and  held  out 
her  hand  to  him.  The  beauty  of  the  morning 
and  of  the  place  had  wrought  in  her  a  gentle 
intoxication,  and  the  mournful  nature  of  her  er 
rand  was  for  the  moment  forgotten.  "Isn't  it 
delicious  here?"  she  exclaimed;  "I  think  I 
should  like  to  live  in  a  greenhouse  and  grow 
like  a  plant." 

"  A  little  of  that  kind  of  thing  would  do  you 
no  end  of  good,"  he  replied  ;  "  a  little  concen 
trated  sunshine  and  bright  colors  and  the  smell 
of  the  fresh  earth,  you  know.  If  you  were  my 
patient,  I  would  make  you  take  a  course  of  it. 
I'd  say  you  wanted  more  vegetable  tissue,  and 
prescribe  a  greenhouse  for  six  months.  I've  no 
doubt  this  man  here  would  take  you.  A  young 
lady  apprentice  would  be  quite  an  attractive 
feature.  You  could  pull  off  dead  leaves  and 
strike  graceful  attitudes,  training  up  vines,  like 
the  gardener's  daughter  in  Tennyson." 

"  What  are  those  gorgeous  things  ?  "  she 
asked,  pointing  to  a  row  of  orchids  hung  on 
nails  along  the  wall. 

"  Those  are  epiphytic  orchids — air  plants,  you 
know :  they  require  no  earth  for  their  roots : 
they  live  on  the  air." 

"  Like  a  chameleon  ?  " 

"  Like  a  chameleon." 

He  took  down  from  its  nail  one  of  the  little 


234  A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL. 

wooden  slabs,  and  showed  her  the  roots  coiled 
about  it,  with  the  cluster  of  bulbs.  The  flower 
was  snow-white  and  shaped  like  a  butterfly. 
The  fringe  of  the  lip  was  of  a  delicate  rose- 
pink,  and  at  the  base  of  it  were  two  spots  of 
rich  maroon,  each  with  a  central  spot  of  the 
most  vivid  orange.  Every  color  was  as  pro 
nounced  as  though  it  were  the  only  one. 

"What  a  daring  combination!"  she  cried. 
"  If  a  lady  should  dress  in  all  those  colors  she'd 
be  thought  vulgar,  but  somehow  it  doesn't  seem 
vulgar  in  a  flower." 

She  turned  the  blossom  over  and  looked  at 
the  under  side  of  the  petals.  "  Those  orange 
spots  show  right  through  the  leaf,"  she  went 
on.  "  as  if  they  were  painted  and  the  paint  laid 
on  thick." 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Putnam,  "  that 
what  you've  just  said  gives  me  a  good  deal  of 
encouragement  ?  " 

"  Encouragement  ?     How  ?  " 

"  Well,  it's  the  first  really  feminine  thing 

At  least — no,  I  don't  mean  that.  But  it  makes 
me  think  that  you  are  more  like  other  girls." 

His  explanation  was  interrupted  by  the 
entrance  of  the  gardener. 

"  Will  you  select  some  of  those  orchids,  please 
— if  you  like  them,  that  is  ?  "  asked  Putnam. 

A  shade  passed  over  her  face.  "  They  are 
too  gay  for  his — for  Henry,"  she  answered. 

"  Try  to  tolerate  a  little  brightness  to-day," 
he  pleaded  in  a  low  voice.  "  You  must  dedicate 
this  morning  to  me ;  it's  the  last,  you  know." 


A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL.  235 

"  I  will  take  a  few  of  them  if  you  wish  it,  but 
not  this  one.  I  will  take  that  little  white  one 
and  that  large  purple  one." 

The  gardener  reached  down  the  varieties 
which  she  pointed  out,  and  they  passed  along 
the  alley  to  select  other  flowers.  She  chose  a 
number  of  white  roses,  dark-shaded  fuchsias 
and  English  violets,  and  then  they  left  the 
place.  Her  expression  had  grown  thoughtful, 
though  not  precisely  sad.  They  walked  slowly 
up  the  long  shady  street  leading  to  the  ceme 
tery. 

"  I  am  dropping  some  of  the  flowers,"  she 
said,  stopping;  "will  you  carry  these  double 
fuchsias  a  minute,  please,  while  I  fasten  the 
others  ?  " 

He  took  them  and  laughed.  "  Now,  if  this 
were  in  a  novel,"  he  said,  "  what  a  neat  oppor 
tunity  for  me  to  say,  '  May  I  not  always  carry 
your  double  fuchsias  ?  '  " 

She  looked  at  him  quickly,  and  her  brown 
cheek  blushed  rosy  red,  but  she  started  on  with 
out  making  any  reply  and  walked  faster. 

"  She  takes,"  he  said  to  himself.  But  he  saw 
the  cemetery  gate  at  the  end  of  the  street.  "  I 
must  make  this  walk  last  longer,"  he  thought. 
Accordingly  he  invented  several  cunning  devices 
to  prolong  it,  stopping  now  and  then  to  point 
out  something  worth  noting  in  the  handsome 
grounds  which  lined  the  street.  And  so  they 
sauntered  along,  she  appearing  to  have  forgot 
ten  the  speech  which  embarrassed  her,  or  at 
least  she  did  not  resent  it.  They  paused  in 


236  A    GRAVEYARD   IDYL. 

front  of  a  well-kept  lawn,  and  he  drew  her  at 
tention  to  the  turf.  "  It's  almost  as  dark  as  the 
evergreens,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  it's  so  green  that  it's 
almost  blue." 

"  What  do  you  suppose  makes  the  bees  gather 
round  that  croquet  stake  so  ?  " 

"  I  reckon  they  take  the  bright  colors  on  it 
for  flowers,"  she  answered,  with  a  certain  quaint- 
ness  of  fancy  which  he  had  often  remarked  in 
her. 

As  they  stood  there,  leaning  against  the  fence, 
a  party  of  schoolgirls  came  along  with  their 
satchels  and  spelling-books.  They  giggled  and 
stared  as  they  passed  the  fence,  and  one  of 
them,  a  handsome,  long-legged,  bold-faced 
thing,  said  aloud,  "  Oh,  my  !  look  at  me  and  my 
fancy  beau  a-takin'  a  walk  !  " 

Putnam  glanced  at  his  companion,  who  col 
ored  nervously  and  looked  away.  "  Saucy  little 
giglets  !  "  he  laughed.  "  Did  you  hear  what  she 
said?  " 

"Yes,"  almost  inaudibly. 

"  I  hope  it  didn't  annoy  you  ?  " 

"  It  was  very  rude,"  walking  on. 

"  Well,  I  rather  like  naughty  schoolgirls : 
they  are  amusing  creatures.  When  I  was  a 
very  small  boy  I  was  sent  to  a  girl's  school,  and 
I  used  to  study  their  ways.  They  always  had 
crumbs  in  their  apron  pockets ;  they  used  to 
write  on  a  slate,  '  Tommy  is  a  good  boy,'  and 
hold  it  up  for  me  to  see  when  the  teacher  wasn't 
looking ;  they  borrowed  my  geography  at  recess 


A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL.  237 

and  painted  all  the  pictures  vermilion  and 
yellow."  He  paused,  but  she  said  nothing,  and 
he  continued,  talking  against  time.  "  There 
was  one  piece  of  chewing-gum  in  that  school 
which  circulated  from  mouth  to  mouth.  It  had 
been  originally  spruce  gum,  I  believe,  but  it  was 
masticated  beyond  recognition :  the  parent  tree 
wouldn't  have  known  her  child.  One  day  I 
found  it  hidden  away  on  a  window-sill  behind 
the  shutter.  It  was  flesh-colored  and  dented 
all  over  with  the  marks  of  sharp  little  teeth.  I 
kept  that  chewing-gum  for  a  week,  and  the 
school  was  like  a  cow  that's  lost  her  cud." 

As  Putnam  completed  these  reminiscences 
they  entered  the  cemetery  gate,  and  the  shadow 
of  its  arch  seemed  to  fall  across  the  young 
girl's  soul.  The  bashful  color  had  faded  from 
her  cheek  and  the  animation  from  her  eye. 
Her  face  wore  a  troubled  expression  ;  she 
walked  slowly  and  looked  about  at  the  grave 
stones. 

Putnam  stopped  talking  abruptly,  but  pres 
ently  said,  "  You  have  not  asked  me  for  your 
fuchsias." 

She  stood  still  and  held  out  her  hand  for 
them. 

"  I  thought  you  might  be  meaning  to  let  me 
keep  them,"  said  Putnam.  His  heart  beat 
fast  and  his  voice  trembled  as  he  continued  : 
"  Perhaps  you  thought  that  what  I  said  a  while 
ago  was  said  in  joke,  but  I  mean  it  in  real 
earnest." 

"  Mean  what  ?  "  she  asked  faintly. 


238  A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL. 

"  Don't  you  know  what  I  mean  ?  "  he  said, 
coming  near  and  taking  her  hand.  "Shall  I 
tell  you,  darling  ?  " 

"  Oh,  please  don't !  Oh,  I  think  I  know. 
Not  here — not  now.  Give  me  the  flowers," 
she  said,  disengaging  her  hand,  "  and  I  will  put 
them  on  Henry's  grave." 

He  handed  them  to  her  and  said,  "  I  won't 
go  on  now  if  it  troubles  you  ;  but  tell  me  first— 
I  am  going  away  to-morrow,  and  shan't  be  back 
till  October — shall  I  find  you  here  then,  and 
may  I  speak  then  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  here  till  winter." 

"  And  may  I  speak  then  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  will  you  listen  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  can  wait." 

They  moved  on  again  along  the  cemetery 
walks.  Putnam  felt  an  exultation  that  he  could 
not  suppress.  In  spite  of  her  language,  her 
face  and  the  tone  of  her  voice  had  betrayed 
her.  He  knew  that  she  cared  for  him.  But  in 
the  blindness  of  his  joy  he  failed  to  notice  an 
increasing  agitation  in  her  manner,  which  fore 
told  the  approach  of  some  painful  crisis  of  feel 
ing.  Her  conflicting  emotions,  long  pent  up, 
were  now  in  most  delicate  equilibrium.  The 
slightest  shock  might  throw  them  out  of  bal 
ance.  Putnam's  nature,  though  generous  and 
at  bottom  sympathetic,  lacked  the  fineness  of 
insight  needed  to  interpret  the  situation.  Like 
many  men  of  robust  and  heedless  temperament, 


A    GRAVEYABD  IDYL.  239 

he  was  more  used  to  bend  others'  moods  to  his 
own  than  to  enter  fully  into  their's.  His  way  of 
approaching  the  subject  had  been  unfortunate, 
beginning  as  he  had  with  a  jest.  The  sequel 
was  destined  to  be  still  more  unlucky. 

They  had  reached  a  part  of  the  cemetery 
which  was  not  divided  into  lots,  but  formed  a 
sort  of  burial  commons  for  the  behoof  of  the 
poor.  It  was  used  mainly  by  Germans,  and  the 
graves  were  principally  those  of  children.  The 
headstones  were  wooden,  painted  white,  with  in 
scriptions  in  black  or  gilt  lettering.  Humble 
edgings  of  white  pebbles  or  shells,  partly  em 
bedded  in  the  earth,  bordered  some  of  the 
graves  ;  artificial  flowers,  tinsel  crosses,  hearts 
and  other  such  fantastic  decorations  lay  upon 
the  mounds.  Putnam's  companion  paused  with 
an  expression  of  pity  before  one  of  these  un 
couth  septilchers,  a  little  heap  of  turf  which 
covered  the  body  of  a  "  span-long  babe." 

"  Now,  isn't  that  echt  Deutsch?  "  began  Put 
nam,  whom  the  gods  had  made  mad.  "  Is  that 
glass  affair  let  into  the  tombstone  a  looking- 
glass  or  a  portrait  of  the  deceased— like  that 
'  statoot  of  a  deceased  infant '  that  Holmes 
tells  about  ?  Even  our  ancestral  cherub  and 
willow  tree  are  better  than  that,  or  even  the  in 
evitable  sick  lamb  and  broken  lily." 

"  The  people  are  poor,"  she  murmured. 

"  They  do  the  same  sort  of  thing  when 
they're  rich.  It's  the  national  taste  to  stick  lit 
tle  tawdry  fribbles  all  over  the  face  of  Nature." 

"  Poor  little  baby !  "  she  said  gently. 


240  A    GRAVEYARD   IDYL. 

11  It's  a  rather  old  baby  by  this  time,"  rejoined 
Putnam,  pointing  out  the  date  on  the  wooden 
slab — "  Eighteen  fifty-one  :  it  would  be  older 
than  I  now,  if  it  had  kept  on." 

Her  eyes  fell  upon  the  inscription,  and  she 
read  it  aloud  :  "  Hier  ruht  in  Gott,  Heinrich 
Franz,  Geb.  Mai  13,  1851.  Gest.  August  4, 
1852.  Wir  hoffen  auf  Wiedersehen."  She  re 
peated  the  last  words  softly  to  herself. 

"  Are  those  white  things  cobblestones,  or 
what  ?  "  continued  Putnam  perversely,  indicat 
ing  the  border  which  quaintly  encircled  the  lit 
tle  mound.  "  As  I  live,"  he  exclaimed,  "  they 
are  door-knobs  !  "  and  partly  through  careless 
ness,  partly  through  accident,  he  poked  one  of 
them  out  of  the  ground  with  the  end  of  his  cane. 

"  Stop  !  "  she  cried  vehemently ;  "  how  can 
you  do  that  ?  " 

He  dropped  his  cane  and  looked  at  her  in 
wonder.  She  burst  into  tears  and  turned  away. 
"You  think  I  am  a  heartless  brute?"  he  cried 
remorsefully,  hastening  after  her. 

"  Oh,  go  away,  please — go  away  and  leave 
me  alone.  I  am  going  to  my  brother ;  I  want 
to  be  alone." 

She  hurried  on,  and  he  paused  irresolute. 
"  Miss  Pinckney  !  "  he  called  after  her,  but  she 
made  no  response.  His  instinct,  now  aroused 
too  late,  told  him  that  he  had  better  leave  her 
alone  for  the  present.  So  he  picked  up  his 
walking  stick  and  turned  reluctantly  homeward. 
He  cursed  himself  mentally  as  he  retraced  the 
paths  along  which  they  had  walked  together  a 


A    GRAVEYARD   IDYL.  241 

few  moments  before.  "  I'm  a  fool,"  he  said  to 
himself  ;  "  I've  gone  and  upset  it  all.  Couldn't 
I  see  that  she  was  feeling  badly  ?  I  suppose  I 
imagined  that  I  was  funny,  and  she  thought  I 
was  an  insensible  brute.  This  comes  of  giving 
way  to  my  infernal  high  spirits."  At  the  same 
time  a  shade  of  resentment  mingled  with  his 
self-reproaches.  "  Why  can't  she  be  a  little 
more  cheerful  and  like  other  girls,  and  make 
some  allowance  for  a  fellow  ? "  he  asked. 
"  Her  brother  wasn't  everybody  else's  brother. 
It's  downright  morbid,  this  obstinate  woe  of 
hers.  Other  people  have  lost  friends  and  got 
over  it." 

On  the  morrow  he  was  to  start  for  the  moun 
tains.  He  visited  the  cemetery  in  the  morning, 
but  Miss  Pinckney  was  not  there.  He  did  not 
know  her  address,  nor  could  the  gatekeeper  in 
form  him ;  and  in  the  afternoon  he  set  out  on 
his  journey  with  many  misgivings. 

It  was  early  October  when  Putnam  returned 
to  the  city.  He  went  at  once  to  the  cemetery, 
but  on  reaching  the  grave  his  heart  sank  at  the 
sight  of  a  bunch  of  withered  flowers  which  must 
have  lain  many  days  upon  the  mound.  The 
blossoms  were  black  and  the  stalks  brittle  and 
dry.  "  Can  she  have  changed  her  mind  and 
gone  South  already  ?  "  he  asked  himself. 

There  was  a  new  sexton  in  the  gate-house, 
who  could  tell  him  nothing  about  her.  He 
wandered  through  the  grounds,  looking  for  the 
old  woman  with  the  watering-pot,  but  the  sea 
son  had  grown  cold,  and  she  had  probably 


242  A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL. 

ceased  her  gardening  operations  for  the  year. 
He  continued  his  walk  beyond  the  marshes. 
The  woods  had  grown  rusty  and  the  sandy  pas 
tures  outside  the  city  were  ringing  with  the  in 
cessant  creak  of  grasshoppers,  which  rose  in 
clouds  under  his  feet  as  he  brushed  though  the 
thin  grass.  The  blue-curl  and  the  life-everlast 
ing  distilled  their  pungent  aroma  in  the  autumn 
sunshine.  A  feeling  of  change  and  forlornness 
weighed  upon  his  spirit.  As  with  Thomas  of 
Ercildoune,  whom  the  Queen  of  Faery  carried 
away  into  Eildon  Hill,  the  short  period  of  his 
absence  seemed  seven  years  long.  An  old  Eng 
lish  song  came  into  his  head: 

Winter  wakeneth  all  my  care, 

Now  these  leaves  waxeth  bear : 

Oft  it  cometh  in  my  thought, 

Of  this  worldes  joy  how  it  goeth  all  to  naught. 

Soon  after  arriving  at  the  hills  he  had  written 
to  Miss  Pinckney  a  long  letter  of  explanations 
and  avowals  ;  but  he  did  not  know  the  number 
of  her  lodgings,  nor,  oddly  enough,  even  her 
Christian  name,  and  the  letter  had  been  returned 
to  him  unopened.  The  next  month  was  one  of 
the  unhappiest  in  Putnam's  life.  On  returning 
to  the  city,  thoroughly  restored  in  health,  he 
had  opened  an  office,  but  he  found  it  impossible 
to  devote  himself  quietly  to  the  duties  of  his 
profession.  He  visited  the  cemetery  at  all  hours, 
but  without  success.  He  took  to  wandering 
about  in  remote  quarters  and  back  streets  of 
the  town,  and  eyed  sharply  every  female  figure 


A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL.  243 

that  passed  him  in  the  twilight,  especially  if  it 
walked  quickly  or  wore  a  veil.  He  slept  little 
at  night,  and  grew  restless  and  irritable.  He 
had  never  confided  this  experience  even  to  his 
mother ;  it  seemed  to  him  something  apart. 

One  afternoon,  toward  the  middle  of  Novem 
ber,  he  was  returning  homeward  weary  and  de 
jected  from  a  walk  in  the  suburbs.  His  way 
led  across  an  uninclosed  outskirt  of  the  town 
which  served  as  a  common  to  the  poor  people 
of  the  neighborhood.  It  was  traversed  by  a 
score  of  footpaths,  and  frequented  by  goats, 
and  by  ducks  that  dabbled  in  the  puddles  of 
rain  water  collected  in  the  hollows.  Halfway 
across  this  open  tract  stood  what  had  formerly 
been  an  old-fashioned  country  house,  now 
converted  into  a  soap-boiling  establishment. 
Around  this  was  a  clump  of  old  pine  trees,  the 
remnant  of  a  grove  which  had  once  flourished 
in  the  sandy  soil.  There  was  something  in  the 
desolation  of  the  place  that  flattered  Putnam's 
mood,  and  he  stopped  to  take  it  in.  The  air 
was  dusk,  but  embers  of  an  angry  sunset  burned 
low  in  the  west.  A  cold  wind  made  a  sound  in 
the  pine  tops  like  the  beating  of  surf  on  a  dis 
tant  shore.  A  flock  of  little  winter  birds  flew 
suddenly  up  from  the  ground  into  one  of  the 
trees,  like  a  flight  of  gray  leaves  whirled  up  by 
a  gust.  As  Putnam  turned  to  look  at  them  he 
saw,  against  the  strip  of  sunset  along  the  hori 
zon,  the  slim  figure  of  a  girl  walking  rapidly  to 
ward  the  opposite  side  of  the  common.  His 
heart  gave  a  great  leap,  and  he  started  after  her 


244  A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL. 

on  a  run.  At  a  corner  of  the  open  ground  the 
figure  vanished,  nor  could  Putnam  decide  into 
which  of  two  or  three  small  streets  she  had 
turned.  He  ran  down  one  and  up  another,  but 
met  no  one  except  a  few  laborers  coming  home 
from  work,  and  finally  gave  up  the  quest.  But 
this  momentary  glimpse  produced  in  him  a  new 
excitement.  He  felt  sure  that  he  had  not  been 
mistaken  ;  he  knew  the  swift,  graceful  step,  the 
slight  form  bending  in  the  wind.  He  fancied 
that  he  had  even  recognized  the  poise  and  shape 
of  the  little  head.  He  imagined,  too,  that  he 
had  not  been  unobserved,  and  that  she  had 
some  reason  for  avoiding  him.  For  a  week  or 
more  he  haunted  the  vicinity  of  the  common, 
but  without  result.  December  was  already 
drawing  to  an  end  when  he  received  the  follow 
ing  note : 

DEAR  MR.  PUTNAM  : 

You  must  forgive  me  for  running  away  from  you 
the  other  evening.  I  am  right — am  I  not — in  sup 
posing  that  you  saw  and  recognized  me  ?  It  was 
rude  in  me  not  to  wait  for  you,  but  I  had  not  courage 
to  talk  with  anyone  just  then.  Perhaps  I  should 
have  seen  you  before  at  the  cemetery — if  you  still 
walk  there — but  I  have  been  sick  and  have  not  been 
there  for  a  long  time.  I  was  only  out  for  the  first 
time  when  I  saw  you  last  Friday.  My  aunt  has  sent 
for  me,  and  I  am  going  South  in  a  few  days.  I  shall 
leave  directions  to  have  this  posted  to  you  as  soon  as 
I  am  gone. 

I  promised  to  be  here  when  you  came  back,  and 
I  write  this  to  thank  you  for  your  kind  interest  in  me 


A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL.  245 

and  to  explain  why  I  go  away  without  seeing  you 
again.  I  think  that  I  know  what  you  wanted  to  ask 
me  that  day  that  we  went  to  the  greenhouse,  and 
perhaps  under  happier  circumstances  I  could  have 
given  you  the  answer  which  you  wished.  But  I  have 
seen  so  much  sorrow,  and  I  am  of  such  a  gloomy 
disposition  that  I  am  not  fit  for  cheerful  society,  and 
I  know  you  would  regret  your  choice. 

I  shall  think  very  often  and  very  gratefully  of  you, 
and  shall  not  forget  the  words  on  that  little  German 
baby's  gravestone.  Good-by. 

IMOGEN  PINCKNEY. 

Putnam  felt  stunned  and  benumbed  on  first 
reading-  this  letter.  Then  he  read  it  over  me 
chanically  two  or  three  times.  The  date  was  a 
month  old,  but  the  postmark  showed  that  it  had 
just  been  mailed.  She  must  have  postponed 
her  departure  somewhat  after  writing  it,  or  the 
person  with  whom  it  had  been  left  had  neg 
lected  to  post  it  till  now.  He  felt  a  sudden  op 
pression  and  need  of  air,  and  taking  his  hat  left 
the  house.  It  was  evening,  and  the  first  snow 
of  the  season  lay  deep  on  the  ground.  An 
ger  and  grief  divided  his  heart.  "  It's  too  bad  ! 
too  bad  ! "  he  murmured,  with  tears  in  his  eyes ; 
"  she  might  have  given  me  one  chance  to  speak. 
She  hasn't  been  fair  to  me.  What's  the  matter 
with  her,  anyhow  ?  She  has  brooded  and 
brooded  till  she  is  downright  melancholy-mad  ;" 
and  then  with  a  revulsion  of  feeling :  "  My  poor 
darling  girl !  Here  she  has  been,  sick  and  all 
alone,  sitting  day  after  day  in  that  cursed  grave 
yard.  I  ought  never  to  have  gone  to  the  moun- 


246  A    GRAVEYARD  IDYL. 

tains  ;  I  ought  to  have  stayed.  I  might  have 
known  how  it  would  turn  out.  Well,  it's  all 
over  now,  I  suppose." 

He  had  taken,  half  unconsciously,  the  direc 
tion  of  the  cemetery,  and  now  found  himself  at 
the  entrance.  The  gate  was  locked,  but  he 
climbed  over  the  wall  and  waded  through  the 
snow  to  the  spot  where  he  had  sat  with  her  so 
many  summer  afternoons.  The  wicker  chair 
was  buried  out  of  sight  in  a  drift.  A  scarcely 
visible  undulation  in  the  white  level  marked  the 
position  of  the  mound,  and  the  headstone  had  a 
snow  cap.  The  cedars  stood  black  in  the  dim 
moonlight,  and  the  icy  coating  of  their  boughs 
rattled  like  candelabra.  He  stood  a  few  mo 
ments  near  the  railing,  and  then  tore  the  letter  into 
fragments  and  threwthemon  thesnow.  "There! 
good-by,  good-by  ! "  he  said  bitterly,  as  the  wind 
carried  them  skating  away  over  the  crust. 

But  what  was  that  ?  The  moon  cast  a 
shadow  of  Henry  Pinckney's  headstone  on  the 
snow,  but  what  was  that  other  and  similar 
shadow  beyond  it?  Putnam  had  been  standing 
edgewise  to  the  slab  ;  he  shifted  his  position 
now  and  saw  a  second  stone  and  a  second 
mound  side  by  side  with  the  first.  An  awful 
faintness  and  trembling  seized  him  as  he  ap 
proached  it  and  bent  his  head  close  down  to  the 
marble.  The  jagged  shadows  of  the  cedar 
branches  played  across  the  surface,  but  by  the 
uncertain  light  he  could  read  the  name  "  Imogen 
Pinckney,"  and  below  it  the  inscription,  "  Wir 
hoffen  auf  Wiedersehen." 


VII. 

EDRIC  THE  WILD  AND  THE 
WITCH   WIFE. 


EDRIC  THE  WILD  AND  THE 
WITCH  WIFE. 

HAT  the  unseen  powers  are  female 
appears  from  the  capricious  way  in 
which  they  bestow  their  favors.  You 
shall  have  a  spiritually  minded  man 
in  search  of  the  marvelous  all  his  life,  and  yet 
never  see  so  much  as  a  ghost.  He  is  abroad  at 
the  most  propitious  seasons  ;  in  windy  autumn 
twilights,  and  in  the  hours  of  deepest  sleep, 
toward  morning,  when  the  moon  is  low.  He 
fasts  to  purge  his  sense  of  grossness  and  make 
his  vision  clear.  Sometimes  he  wakes  a  whole 
summer  night  and  wanders  about  the  dusky 
fields,  the  edges  of  woods  and  marshes  and  all 
haunted  places,  yet  never  hears  anything  more 
evil  than  the  boom  of  the  nighthawk  hunting 
insects  in  the  heavens,  or  the  iterations  of  a 
whip-poor-will  from  a  tree  in  the  meadow. 
But  some  wild  boon  companion,  some  Tarn 
O'Shanter,  who  drinks  deep  and  sleeps  sound, 
and  never  troubles  his  head  about  wraiths  and 
fairies,  has  but  to  lose  his  way  anywhere  after 
nightfall,  when— presto !  the  curtains  of  the 
invisible  world  are  drawn  aside  and  his  drunken 
eyes  are  staring  on  the  mad  dances  of  goblins, 
249 


250  EDRIC    THE    WILD 

for  an  instant  glimpse  of  which  many  a  better 
man  would  give  ten  years  of  his  life. 

The  conditions  on  which  the  powers  grant 
their  rare  favors  to  men  are  easy  but,  once 
violated,  the  givers  are  inexorable.  They  are 
the  lords  of  a  manor  held  at  some  trifling 
rental — an  annual  shoat  or  hare.  But  the  rent 
must  be  paid.  The  very  easiness  of  the  con 
dition  leads  the  recipient  of  their  bounties  to 
neglect  it.  "  What !  "  he  thinks  in  his  heart, 
"  the  gods  will  never  exact  such  a  toy."  And 
then  he  finds  too  late  that  his  right  is  forfeit 
beyond  recall,  and  his  lords  stand  upon  the 
letter  of  the  bond.  Naaman,  the  Syrian, 
thought  it  a  light  matter  to  bathe  in  Jordan, 
and  would  have  chosen  some  more  difficult  way 
to  be  healed  of  his  leprosy ;  and  Orpheus  did 
but  glance  behind  him  to  lose  his  wife  and  find 
the  truth  : 

By  the  just  gods  whom  no  weak  pity  moved. 

This  also  found  Edric  the  Wild,  the  Saxon 
thane,  who  stood  out  for  four  years  against 
William  the  Conqueror.  Edric  "  Salvage  "  and 
"  Silvaticus,"  he  is  described  in  Domesday 
Book,  where  he  is  entered  as  lord  of  the  manor 
of  Ledbury  North.  And  old  Simeon  of  Dur 
ham  calls  him  a  vir  strenuissimus,  who  laid 
waste  the  lands  of  the  castellans  of  Hereford, 
and  killed  many  of  their  knights  and  squires. 
He  lurked,  with  his  following  of  Saxon  outlaws, 
in  the  forests  and  hills  of  the  rough  Welsh 
border,  and  made  his  peace  with  the  Norman? 


AND    THE    WITCH   WIFE.         251 

only  in  1070,  when  resistance  to  the  foreign 
rule  had  become  hopeless.  He  was  then  taken 
into  the  favor  of  William — who,  like  a  later 
monarch  of  England,  "  loved  a  man  " — and 
made  the  expedition  to  Scotland  with  him  in 
1072.  So  much  is  history  ;  but  legend,  hardly 
less  authentic  than  the  chronicles  of  those  dim 
times,  says  as  follows  : 

Edric,  returning  late  one  night  from  a  hunt, 
lost  his  way  in  the  great  oak  forests  which 
filled  the  valley  of  the  Dee.  He  was  attended 
by  a  single  horse-boy,  who  nodded  half  asleep 
on  his  horse,  as  he  followed  his  master  slowly 
along  a  narrow  wood-road  that  wound  be 
tween  the  thick  boles  of  the  oak  trees  and  the 
clumps  of  gigantic  fern.  The  night  was  a 
wild  one,  with  a  high  wind  and  a  scud  of  clouds 
across  the  gibbous  moon.  There  was  a  steady 
war  in  the  tree-tops,  lower  down  a  groaning 
and  shrieking  in  the  boughs,  and  lower  still  a 
whistle  and  rustle  in  the  fern.  All  these  sounds 
occasionally  assumed  a  resemblance  to  human 
voices,  and  the  wavering  moon  shadows  that 
ran  along  the  path  seemed  every  now  and 
then  to  be  fantastic  shapes  of  living  creatures, 
that  raced  ahead  of  the  riders,  to  hide  behind  a 
trunk  and  then  dart  out  and  race  on  again.  It 
was  a  haunted  region,  "  where  Deva  spreads 
her  wizard  stream,"  full  of  the  memory  of  Mer 
lin  and  not  far  from  the  waste  city  of  Chester, 
on  whose  walls,  the  few  Saxon  churls  that 
sometimes  took  shelter  there  in  stormy  weather 
still  saw  the  apparitions  of  Roman  sentries 


252  EDRIC   THE    WILD 

making-  their  nightly  rounds.  But  Edric  was 
not  superstitious.  He  was  a  rough-and-ready 
soldier,  distinguished,  says  Walter  Map,  cor- 
poris  ag  Hit  ate  et  jocunditate  verborum  et  ope- 
rum.  The  horses  stumbled  on  till  the  wood- 
path  broadened  into  a  glade,  in  the  middle  of 
which  a  deserted  hunting  lodge  broke  the 
moonlight  with  its  dark  bulk.  Here  Edric  and 
his  squire  took  lodging  for  the  night,  after  hob 
bling  their  horses  and  turning  them  loose  to 
crop  the  grass  in  the  little  clearing.  They 
found  the  lodge  unfurnished  save  for  a  few 
shreds  of  worm-eaten  arras  that  waved  and 
flapped  in  the  gusty  air.  But  groping  their 
way  through  hall  and  bower,  they  finally  came 
upon  a  heap  of  leaves  which  the  winds  of  many 
autumns  had  driven  through  the  empty  case 
ments  and  piled  up  in  the  corner  of  a  bare 
chamber.  There  they  made  their  bed  and  were 
soon  asleep.  It  was  long  past  midnight  when 
Edric  awoke.  The  wind  had  fallen  and  the 
moon  was  down,  but  a  light  streamed  through 
the  door  of  the  neighboring  apartment,  whence 
also  issued  an  indescribable  sound.  The  boy 
was  still  asleep  and  the  master,  grasping  his 
short  seax  or  Saxon  sword,  stole  to  the  door 
and  looked  in.  The  room  was  full  of  light,  the 
source  of  which,  however,  was  invisible  ;  as  also 
of  the  whirring,  buzzing  noise  which  sounded, 
as  much  as  anything,  like  the  continuous  rustle 
of  ten  thousand  clocks  that  hang  upon  the 
wall  of  the  Uhrausstellung  at  Triberg  in  the 
Black  Forest,  and  keep  up  a  humming  as  of  a 


AND    THE    WITCH    WIFE.         253 

myriad  insects.  Through  this  pierced  at  inter 
vals  the  twanging  of  a  Welsh  harp,  though  the 
harper  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  In  the  center 
of  the  room  a  score  of  women  moved  to  and 
fro  in  a  sort  of  choral  dance,  chanting  a  low 
song  in  a  tongue  which  was  neither  Welsh  nor 
English,  both  of  which  languages  were  familiar 
to  the  hardy  borderer.  The  dancers  were  very 
fair,  tall  as  men,  and  clad  in  light  tunics  of 
white  linen.  Edric  gazed  until  his  eyes  grew 
dazzled  and  his  head  swam.  He  had  no  doubt 
as  to  the  true  nature  of  the  beings  that  he  saw 
before  him.  He  had  heard  of  the  nocturnal 
phalanxes  of  demons  and  the  vengeance  which 
they  were  wont  to  wreak  upon  the  venturesome 
mortals  who  violated  their  divinities  and  ex 
posed  their  rites.  But  his  blood  was  up  and 
the  daredevil  spirit  of  the  outlaw  prompted  him 
to  go  all  lengths.  Gradually  his  gaze  became 
concentrated  upon  a  single  figure,  the  tallest 
and  most  beautiful  witch  in  the  band.  He  de 
voured  her  graceful  motions  with  his  eyes,  as 
she  wheeled  and  leaped,  linked  and  unlinked 
herself  in  the  choral  chain,  till  the  impulse  to 
break  the  spell  by  action  became  overpowering, 
and,  dropping  his  sword,  he  rushed  into  the 
group  with  a  shout  and  seized  the  beautiful 
sorceress  in  his  arms.  Instantly  the  music 
stopped  with  a  loud  rattling  and  jarring  sound, 
and  the  companions  of  his  captive,  swarming 
about  him  like  angry  bees,  assailed  him  with 
teeth  and  nails.  His  prize,  too,  writhed  and 
twisted  in  his  grasp,  but  he  held  her  fast  and 


254  EDRIC   THE    WILD 

shouted  lustily  for  the  boy.  At  last  the  latter, 
with  pale  face  and  chattering  teeth,  appeared 
in  the  doorway,  and  immediately  all  was  dark 
ness  and  silence.  So  suddenly  had  the  appari 
tions  vanished  that  Edric  almost  thought  that 
the  creature  which  he  held  had  vanished  too. 
But,  no  ;  in  the  darkness  he  still  felt  the  warm 
flesh  palpitating  in  his  embrace,  heard  her  thick 
pantings,  and  even  smelled  the  sweet  breath  of 
her  lips.  She  made  no  further  resistance,  while 
her  captor  led  her  out  from  the  lodge  into  the 
open  air,  where  the  gray  light  of  dawn  shone 
into  her  wild  eyes.  The  boy  caught  the  horses 
and  led  them  up,  and  Edric,  seating  her  before 
him  on  the  saddle,  rode  slowly  off  into  the 
woods,  looking  warily  into  the  thickets  on 
either  side,  as  fearful  of  an  ambush.  But  he 
met  with  no  disturbance,  and  soon  the  forest 
about  began  to  have  a  familiar  look,  and  before 
the  noon  was  high  he  had  brought  her  home  to 
Ladbury. 

For  three  days  she  uttered  no  word,  but  she 
yielded  herself  patiently  to  his  caresses,  and  it 
is  said  that  he  found  in  her  embraces  a  delight 
beyond  all  pleasure  which  a  mortal  woman  can 
impart.  On  the  fourth  day  she  said  to  him  in 
good  West  Saxon,  "I  salute  you,  my  dearest 
lord.  You  will  be  safe  and  prosperous  until  you 
reproach  me,  either  with  my  sisters  or  the  place 
where  you  found  me,  or  with  any  circumstances 
connected  therewith.  From  that  day  you  will 
lose  me,  and  decline  from  your  felicity,  and  die 
before  your  time,  through  your  importunity." 


AND    THE    WITCH    WIFE.         255 

So  Edric  made  a  great  feast  and  bade  the 
neighboring  earls  to  it,  and  was  solemnly  wed 
ded  to  his  sylvan  bride.  Her  fame  reached  the 
court,  and  King  William  summoned  her  with  her 
husband  to  London  for  a  season,  Edric  having 
now  made  his  peace  with  the  Conqueror  and 
received  from  him  the  manor  of  Ledbury  North 
in  fief.  At  court  her  unheard  of  beauty  was 
the  wonder  of  all  the  nobles  and  the  ladies. 

She  bore  her  husband  a  boy,  Alnodus,  who 
differed  seemingly  in  no  respect  from  the  fruit 
of  ordinary  marriages.  Edric  lived  happily 
with  his  wife  for  many  years,  but  at  last  he 
grew  careless  and  secure.  She  was  of  a  still 
conversation  and  had  some  elfish  ways,  though 
not  unpleasing  ones.  She  would  laugh  and 
talk  in  a  low  tone  to  herself.  If  Edric  woke  in 
the  night  he  always  found  her  waking.  She 
loved  to  walk  through  solitary  pastures  at  dew- 
fall,  at  which  times  she  could  be  heard  at  a 
great  distance  singing  a  peculiar  song.  Some 
times  she  disappeared  for  hours  at  a  time,  none 
knew  whither,  but  this  was  always  by  day.  At 
length,  however,  Edric,  returning  from  the  hunt 
about  the  third  hour  of  the  night,  sought  her  in 
her  chamber,  and  not  finding  her  there  called 
her.  She  came  slowly  from  somewhere  when 
called,  and  Edric,  looking  upon  her,  said  in 
sudden  anger  and  impatience,  "Have  your 
sisters  been  keeping  you?"  The  rest  of  his 
speech,  says  the  chronicler,  was  uttered  to  air, 
for,  in  the  instant,  at  the  mention  of  her  sisters, 
she  vanished  and  was  never  seen  again.  In 


256  EDRIC   THE    WILD. 

vain  her  deserted  mate  sought  the  enchanted 
glade  and  the  old  hunting  lodge  where  he  had 
won  her.  He  traced  and  retraced  every  path 
through  the  forest  till  each  tree  and  bush  had 
grown  familiar,  but  never  found  the  spot.  He 
called  her  name  day  and  night  with  tears,  with 
prayers  for  forgiveness,  with  promises  of 
amends.  But  naught  availed,  and  he  wasted 
away  with  grief  and  died  in  a  few  short  months 
after  her  disappearance. 

Of  his  son  Alnodus,  who  survived  him,  it  is 
related  that  he  became  a  man  of  great  sanctity 
and  wisdom,  who,  being  struck  with  palsy  and 
a  tremor  of  the  head  and  limbs  when  still 
young,  had  himself  carried  to  Hereford  to  the 
shrine  of  St.  Ethelbert,  king  and  martyr,  and 
praying  before  his  altar  was  restored  in  a  single 
night  to  sound  health.  In  gratitude  for  this 
miraculous  interposition,  he  gave  his  manor  of 
Ledbury  to  God  and  the  Blessed  Virgin  and 
St.  Ethelbert,  with  all  its  appurtenances  in 
perpetuity,  and  it  is  now  annexed  to  the  epis 
copal  see  of  Hereford.  He  himself,  having 
stripped  him  of  his  entire  possessions,  spent  the 
rest  of  his  life  as  a  pilgrim  in  the  service  of 
Christ. 


VIII. 
THE  WINE-FLOWER, 


THE  WINE-FLOWER. 

1HAT  is  a  mushroom,  Thomas,  a  little 
button  mushroom  ;  and  there  is  an 
other,  and  still  another.   They  spring 
up  where   the    turf   is   smooth   and 
thick  and  nibbled  close  by  the  sheep.     Notice 
their  flesh-colored  gills  and  the  ruptured  edges 
of  the  white  membrane  that  covered  them,  as 
delicate  as  the  softest  undressed  kid-skin.  Smell 
their  earthy  fragrance.    Break  off  this  stem  and 
take  a  bite  of  it.     It  tastes  like  a  hickory-nut, 
without  its  oil.     These  little  fungi  start  up  in  a 
single  night,  as  if  begotten  by  the  dew  and  the 
starlight.     But  we  have  heard  of  plants  that 
had  an  even  quicker  growth.   There  was  Jack's 
beanstalk,  and  Jonah's  gourd,  and  the  blossom 
ing  pilgrim  staff  of  Tannhauser.     And  I  will 
tell  you  of  a  flower  that  grew  and  withered  as 
suddenly  as  these,  and  which  expressed  a  mys 
tic  purity  by  its  snowy  petals,  though  its  birth 
was  not  "  of  the  womb  of  morning  dew,"  nor 
its  "  conception  of  the  glorious  prime"  ;  but  the 
juices  that  fed  it  were  of  blood-red  wine,  rich  as 
the  soil  that  lay  in  Isabella's  pot  of  basil. 

Waerferth  was  Bishop  of  Worcester  in  the 
reign  of  the  great  Alfred,  at  whose  request  he 


260  THE    WINE-FLOWER. 

translated  the  "  Dialogues  of  Pope  Gregory  " 
into  English.  The  book  has  never  been  put 
into  print,  but  remains  in  handwriting  in  the 
famous  book-houses  of  Oxenford. 

Waerferth  was  a  good  and  learned  man,  but 
he  loved  much  sleep  and  worldly  lore  ;  to  talk 
with  his  friends  about  a  bright  fire  of  ashen  bil 
lets,  to  hear  the  harp  touched,  and  to  drink  the 
wine  which  chapmen  brought  hither  from  the 
kingdom  of  the  Franks,  because  the  wine- 
berries  did  not  ripen  well  in  English  land. 
Waerferth  loved  also  his  wife  Angharad ;  for, 
before  the  coming  of  the  Norman,  bishop  and 
mass-priest  were  not  ashamed  of  their  man 
hood,  but  took  the  comfort  and  love  of  woman 
in  holy  wedlock.  But  the  haughty  French  pre 
lates  scorn  the  Word  of  God,  which  says  that  a 
bishop  shall  be  the  husband  of  one  wife.  Nei 
ther  would  Waerferth  shave  his  face  like  the 
womanish  ecclesiastics  of  these  days,  but  let 
his  yellow  beard  cover  his  rosy  cheeks.  Ang 
harad  was  a  Welsh  woman,  and  by  some  she 
was  accounted  a  sorceress.  But  I  think  this 
was  only  by  reason  of  her  dark  favor  and 
of  her  shape,  which  was  so  long  and  slender 
that  she  looked  like  a  snake.  It  was  hard  to  say 
whether  her  eyes  were  blacker  than  her  eye 
brows,  or  her  eyebrows  blacker  than  her  hair, 
which  was  rolled  and  piled  upon  her  head  in 
such  masses  that  it  seemed  a  wonder  how  her 
thin  body  could  stand  so  upright  under  the 
weight  of  it.  And  her  tire-women  reported 
that  when  she  was  unclothed  and  her  hair  was 


THE    WINE-FLOWER.  261 

loosened,  it  would  fall  about  her  like  a  cloak,  so 
tnat  from  her  bosom  to  her  feet  one  might  not 
see  even  an  inch  of  her  flesh.  Withal  she  was 
expfe/t  in  starcraft,  leechdom  and  wort-cun 
ning.  She  knew  tales  of  Cynon  ap  Clydno  and 
his  We,  Morvyth,  the  daughter  of  Urien ;  and 
of  the  whitethorn  bush  in  the  forest  Broch'al- 
lean,  where  Merlin  lies  chained  ;  and  of  the 
maiden  Luned  with  her  enchanted  bezel.  And 
she  sang  these  to  her  harp  in  a  marvelously 
clear,  high,  and  sweet  voice,  like  a  wild  swan 
singing  among  the  rushes  of  the  river  Usk,  or 
upon  the  solitary  lakes  of  Snowdon.  Howbeit, 
like  all  the  women  of  the  Bret,  she  was  jealous 
and  passionate  and  sharp  of  tongue,  and  had  a 
great  pride  of  xineage.  She  could — and  often 
did — recite  all  the  names  in  her  pedigree  for 
twenty  generations,  back  to  a  certain  king  of 
the  tribe  of  the  Iceni,  who  had  beaten  three 
Roman  legions  in  battle. 

Howbeit,  the  kinsmen  of  Waerferth  took 
offense  that  he  should  have  to  wife  a  foreign 
woman  instead  oi  choosing  a  bride  among  his 
own  folk  of  Wessex ;  and  there  was  no  love  lost 
between  Angharad  and  them.  But  it  happened 
that  adistant  kinsman,  to  whom  the  bishop  had 
been  greatly  beholden,  died  in  the  capital  city 
of  Winchester,  and  on  his  death-bed  he  com 
mitted  his  only  child,  a  girl  of  some  seventeen 
years,  to  the  care  of  his  cousin  Waerferth.  The 
orphan  had  neither  fee  nor  land,  and  the  bishop 
took  her  under  his  protection  and  into  his 
household.  The  maid  was  well  grown  and  had 


262  THE    WINE-FLOWER. 

eyes  as  blue  as  the  blossom  of  the  flax  and  hair 
as  yellow  as  a  cowslip.  Moreover,  her  ways 
were  gentle  and  her  voice  as  soft  as  a  dove's, 
and  she  blushed  prettily  when  spoken  to.  So 
that  the  women  of  Waerferth's  blood  said  often 
to  one  another  :  "  It  is  a  pity  that  our  brother 
did  not  get  him  for  a  wife  some  bonny  Saxon 
wench  like  Godgifu,  instead  of  that  black  she- 
warlock,  who  mutters  Welsh  charms  to  the 
embers  when  we  sit  by  her  fire,  and  whom 
Wicglaf  the  herd  has  thrice  seen  floating  on  the 
Severn  at  midnight  in  the  likeness  of  a  black 
cygnet."  These  speeches  were  carried  to  the 
ears  of  Angharad,  who  forthwith  conceived 
such  hatred  and  jealousy  of  her  new  inmate 
that  she  treated  her  with  the  utmost  harshness. 
One  day  Waerferth,  finding  the  poor  maid  in 
tears,  drew  from  her,  much  against  her  will,  an 
acknowledgment  of  Angharad's  unkindness. 
Thereupon  he  admonished  his  wife  angrily,  say 
ing,  "  The  father  of  Godgifu  was  my  gossip  and 
my  blood-friend,  who  saved  my  life  and  got  me 
favor  with  the  king.  While  I  have  a  roof  she 
shall  have  shelter,  and  while  I  have  a  loaf  she 
shall  share  it.  And  do  not  you  drive  her  from  the 
house,  lest  evil  befall  it  and  the  curse  of  God." 
Angharad  answered  nothing,  but  her  sullen 
jealousy  waxed  daily,  and  every  innocent  kind 
ness  which  her  lord  showed  to  his  young  kins 
woman  added  proof  to  his  wife's  suspicions. 
At  last  she  made  a  desperate  resolve  and  betook 
herself  to  a  wise  woman  of  the  Cymry  who 
dwelt  by  the  sea.  She  found  her  on  a  windy 


THE    WINE-FLOWER.  263 

evening,  standing  by  the  edge  of  the  waves  on  a 
low  sand- spit.  She  was  clad  in  a  single  robe  of 
sea-water  green,  and  was  looking  off  over  the 
ocean.  Her  back  was  turned,  and  her  heel 
rested  lightly  on  a  rope,  the  other  end  of  which 
was  tied  to  the  horns  of  a  monstrous  bull  which 
plunged  and  bellowed  furiously.  But  such  was 
the  power  of  the  witch  that,  though  she  did  not 
once  vary  her  easy  attitude,  or  even  seem  to 
notice  the  creature's  violent  struggles  to  free 
itself,  the  rope  held.  When  Angharad  had 
made  known  her  errand,  the  sorceress,  without 
turning  to  face  her,  threw  over  her  shoulder  a 
small  vial  made  of  the  tip  of  a  wild  buffalo's 
horn  and  filled  with  a  colorless  liquid.  Ang 
harad  picked  it  up  from  the  sand  where  it  had 
fallen,  and  kissing  the  hem  of  the  wise  woman's 
robe,  which  was  blowing  about  in  the  wind,  stole 
softly  away.  That  evening  in  his  low-studded, 
oaken-ceiled  hall,  blackened  by  the  smoke  of 
torches,  the  bishop  sat  drinking  his  wine  and 
listening  to  his  lady  as  she  struck  the  harp  and 
sang,  She  had  made  herself  exceeding  fair, 
having  put  on  a  gown  of  yellow  satin  and  shoes 
of  variegated  leather,  clasped  with  golden  bosses 
in  the  shape  of  dragons.  Ever  and  anon  Waer- 
ferth  kissed  her  as  he  drank,  and  called  for 
another  song,  and  ever  she  sang  wildly  well. 
At  last  her  lord,  as  was  his  wont,  fell  into  a 
gentle  doze,  and,  with  a  quick  motion,  she  flung 
the  witch's  poison  into  the  half  empty  cup  and 
still  played  on.  And  ever  her  voice  was  shriller 
and  louder,  as  she  sang  the  death-wail  of 


264  THE    WINE-FLOWER. 

Aneurin  over  the  warriors  who  came  not  back 
from  Cattraeth,  and  the  lament  of  Ovvain  when 
the  drinking-horn,  "  Hirlas,  rich  with  ancient 
silver,"  was  borne  to  the  empty  seat  of  Tudur. 

The  moonshine,  which  poured  in  a  flood 
through  the  casement,  fell  upon  the  crystal 
goblet  standing  before  her  sleeping  lord,  and  the 
shadow  of  the  wine  made  a  rosy  spot  in  the 
white  slab  of  light  that  lay  across  the  board. 
Suddenly  there  was  a  disturbance  in  the  depths 
of  the  cup.  The  liquor,  glowing  like  a  car 
buncle  in  its  stillness,  began  to  bubble  and 
seethe,  and  finally  from  its  agitated  surface 
there  slowly  rose  and  unfolded  a  great  white 
flower  with  a  golden  heart,  resembling  a  lily, 
only  that  no  lily  sprung  from  earth  was  evei1 
half  so  white  or  half  so  beautiful.  The  lady 
stared  a  moment  with  dilated  eyes  upon  the 
lovely  miracle  as  it  glittered  in  the  moon,  then, 
with  a  happy  cry,  threw  herself  upon  her  hus 
band's  breast.  The  harp  fell  with  a  musical 
clang  to  the  floor,  and  the  cup,  overturned 
by  Angharad's  sleeve,  rolled  upon  the  table. 
"  What !  little  wife,  have  I  slept  ?  "  said  Waer- 
ferth,  awakening  and  flinging  his  arms  about 
her.  And  Godgifu,  coming  at  the  instant  to 
the  door  and  lifting  the  curtain,  smiled  when  she 
saw  the  pair  embracing,  and  retreated  softly 
without  having  been  perceived.  But  later, 
when  the  torches  were  lighted,  the  goblet  lay 
upon  its  side,  but  the  wondrous  bloom  had 
vanished.  Nor  was  the  table  wet  or  stained 
near  by,  for  the  flower  had  drawn  up  all  the 


THE    WINE-FLOWER.  265 

wine  into  itself,  even  as  the  new  leaves  and 
buds  of  the  tree  draw  up  the  sap  in  spring. 
Only  a  few  black  seeds,  like  the  seeds  of  the 
Lily  of  the  Annunciation,  adhered  to  the  bot 
tom  of  the  cup.  "  This  wine  draws  muddy  and 
near  the  lees,"  said  the  bishop,  as  he  glanced 
into  the  empty  beaker.  "  Here  are  some  grape 
seeds.  I  must  have  Wulfheard  broach  the 
other  cask." 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


THE  END. 


BUCKRAM  SERIES. 

SIR  QUIXOTE  OF  THE  MOORS. 

A  Scotch  Romance.     By  JOHN  BUCHAN. 

LADY  BONNIE'S  EXPERIMENT. 

A  quaint  pastoral.     By  TIGHE  HOPKINS. 

KAFIR  STORIES. 

Tales  of  adventure.     By  WM.  CHAS.  SCULLY. 

THE  MASTER-KNOT 

And  "  Another  Story."     By  CONOVER  DUFF. 

THE  TIME  MACHINE. 

The  Story  of  an  Invention.     By  H.  G.  WELLS. 

THE  PRISONER  OF  ZENDA.   (airf-ffrf.) 

By  ANTHONY  HOPE.     A  stirring  romance. 

THE  INDISCRETION  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

By  ANTHONY  HOPE.     ($th  Edition?) 

TENEMENT  TALES  OF  NEW  YORK. 

By  J.  W.  SULLIVAN. 

SLUM  STORIES  OF  LONDON. 

(Neighbors  of  Ours.)   By  H.  W.  NEVINSON. 
THE  WAYS  OF  YALE,     (s**  Edition.-) 

Sketches,  mainly  humorous.    By  H.  A.  BEERS. 

A  SUBURBAN  PASTORAL.  ($tk  Edition) 

American  stories.     By  HENRY  A.  BEERS. 
JACK  O'DOON.    (*d  Edition.) 

An  American  novel.     By  MARIA  BEALE. 

QUAKER  IDYLS.    &k  Edition.) 

By  MRS.  S.  M.  H.  GARDNER. 

A  MAN  OF  MARK.    (6/A  Edition.) 

A  South  American  tale.     By  ANTHONY  HOPE. 

SPORT  ROYAL.    <?d  Edition.) 

And  Other  Stories.    By  ANTHONY  HOPE. 

THE  DOLLY  DIALOGUES.  6/A  Edition.) 

By  ANTHONY  HOPE. 

A  CHANGE  OF  AIR.   W*  Edition) 

By  ANTHONY   HOPE.    With  portrait. 

JOHN  INGERFIELD.  Cs*A  Edition) 

A  love  tragedy.     By  JEROME  K.  JEROME. 

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO.,  NEW  YORK. 


ays,  that  such  a  book  as  the  present  one  is  a 
freshing  innovation."  —  Yale  Literary  News. 


By  HENRY  A.  BEERS. 

In    Buckram    Series,    i8mo,    with    fronti«« 
pieces,  75  cents  each. 

THE  WAYS  OF  YALE.    (4th  Ed.) 

In  the  Consulship  of  Plancus.  Humor 
ous  Sketches. 

"  Yale  is  to  be  congratulated  upon  having  such 
a  writer  on  her  campus.  So  many  rankly  unjust 
and  superficial  books  have  been  written  on  Yale 
wa 
ref 

There  is  only  one  fault  to  find,  and  that  is 
there  is  not  enough  of  it."  —  New  York  Times. 

"  A  felicitous  capture  of  the  elusive  under 
graduate  spirit  .  .  .  mingled  with  the  uproarious 
humor  which  jostles  the  sentimental  so  closely 
in  college  life.'  —  Springfield  Republican. 

"  This  royally  entertaining  booklet."  —  Inde 
pendent. 

A     SUBURBAN     PASTORAL. 

(jd  Edition.)  And  Five  Other  Tales 
of  American  Life,  and  Two  Old  Eng. 
lish  Legends. 

•'  No  collection  of  short  stories  by  an  American 
writer,  lately  published,  has  made  a  more  enter 
taining  book."—  N.  Y.  Times. 

"  ['A  Suburban  Pastoral  ']  so  devoid  of  preten 
sion  or  effort,  so  freshly  and  frankly  written,  so 
quiet  in  its  humor,  and  with  its  suggestion  of 
pathos  so  latent  in  the  emotions  it  awakens  .  .  . 
hereafter  we  shall  remember  him  among  the 
sweetest,  tenderest,  and  gravest  of  our  story. 
tellers."—  Mail  and  Express. 

"'A  Midwinter  Night's  Dream'  is  a  beautiful 
example  of  writing  which  is  permeated  with  deli 
cate  fancy.  .  .  '  Split  Zephyrs  '  discusses  many 
of  those  problems  which  you  will  hear  debated 
almost  every  night  in  June  under  the  elms  and  in 
old  college  haunts."  —  Life. 

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO.,  New  York. 


YALE  COLLEGE.     Biographical 
Sketches  of  the  Graduates  of 

/ale  College.  With  Annals  of  the 
College  History,  October,  lyoi-May, 
1745.  By  F.  B.  DEXTER.  8vo.  $5.00. 

volume  of  about  700  pages,  containing  sketches 
01  the  graduates  of  the  college  in  the  first  forty 
years  after  its  establishment,  with  full  biograph 
ical  lists  of  their  published  writings,  and  ample 
references  to  the  authorities  for  every  statement 
in  the  sketches  ;  with  an  appendix  giving  statis 
tics  of  the  graduates  down  101745.  Prepared  on 
the  lines  of  Mr.  Sibley's  work  for  Harvard. 

41  For  the  production  of  a  book  of  this  character 
no  scholar  probably  in  America  is  better  equipped 
than  Professor  Dexter.  The  work  is  what  its 
name  implies,  '  Biographical  Sketches  of  Yale 
Graduates,'  the  annals  of  the  college  being  deftly 
introduced  to  illustrate  the  biographies.  The 
sketches  are  short,  and  information  on  many 
points  admirably  condensed,  and  yet  presented 
clearly  ;  every  page  bears  evidence  of  the  literary 
skill  and  good  taste  of  the  author."— Magazine 
of  American  History. 

"  Mr.  Dexter  has  discharged  his  task  in  a  man 
ner  to  which  nothing  but  praise  can  be  awarded. 
He  is  a  most  diligent  and  careful  investigator.  — 
Boston  Advertiser. 

***  A  second  volume,  containing  the  History 
and  Biographies  to  1760,  is  in  preparation,  and 
•may  be  expected  in  1895. 

YALE  UNIVERSITY,  A  Sketch 
of  the  History  of.  By  F.  B.  DEX 
TER.  i2mo.  $1.25. 

Setting  forth  in  about  100  pages  the  history  of 
the  growth  of  Yale  University  from  its  foundation 
and  settlement,  through  the  administrations  of  the 
various  presidents,  down  to  the  close  of  that  of  ex- 
President  Porter.  The  aim  has  been  to  present 
the  most  important  facts  accurately  and  concisely. 

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO., 
Publishers,  New  York. 


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